


More Than Words

by OfPearlsAndShoelaces



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Teen Pregnancy, everlark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 14:19:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 75,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfPearlsAndShoelaces/pseuds/OfPearlsAndShoelaces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of their ill-fated Victory Tour, Katniss and Peeta are forced to do the unthinkable to save their families from President Snow's wrath. Together, they struggle to cope with a different set of circumstances and hold onto themselves while rebellion simmers in the background. A Catching Fire AU. Adult content and mature themes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to preface this by reiterating that this story contains adult content- smut/lemons/sex- whatever you prefer to call it. If you are underage or uncomfortable with this, then proceed with caution. Otherwise, please enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games. I just like to play with the characters.

_The room reeks of overly scented roses and the sharp, metallic tang of copper. The harsh perfume immediately assaults my senses upon entering the opulent office, settling like a fog in my brain and setting my nerves on edge. Katniss’s hand spasms nervously in mine._

_“Mr. Mellark and Miss Everdeen, how lovely to see you both. Please take a seat.” President Snow gestures to the two plush chairs set several feet apart in front of his desk, and I’m forced drop my tight hold on Katniss’s hand as we obey. My hand feels cold and empty without hers laced through it._

_The President settles in the chair behind his desk, taking his time scrutinizing us with those bottomless eyes. The silence stretches on for what feels like hours, the tension in the room unbearably palpable. Snow allows it to build to an impossibly high point before he finally speaks._

_“I must begin by congratulating both of you. You’ve done well convincing the districts of your love throughout the duration of your Victory Tour, and the country is absolutely infatuated with the pair of you.” Snow pauses to enjoy the effect of his words, but I refuse to let up my poker face. There must be more. This is simply too good to be true. The insinuation that we truly prevented a rebellion by proving our “love” to the country with false kisses and pretty words is complete and utter bullshit, and everyone present knows it._

_“The event of having two victors is…unprecedented, to say the least, not to mention having two such_ desirable _victors as yourselves,” Snow continues, a cruel smile curling his unnaturally puffy lips. “As I’m sure you know, victors are much revered here in the Capitol. People simply love you- the exotic, triumphant species of the districts. In fact, many of our residents in the city will pay handsomely for the_ special _company of one such victor.”_

_My stomach sinks to my feet. Snow’s words break through the overwhelming cloud of fear and nerves in my head and I’m almost certain that I understand what he means._

_I’ve heard the whispers passing through the crowds during our many Capitol parties._

_Enough to gather a vague idea of what happens to select Victors after their Games, anyway. Haymitch became strangely silent and deflected the question when I asked him about it, but his refusal to answer only confirmed my suspicions._

_Katniss and I are the famous star- crossed lovers of District 12, the reigning co-champions of the Hunger Games. We are_ special _and_ desirable _and the Capitol_ loves _us. We are still children. But that does not matter to Snow, because he is going to sell us. He wants to force us into prostitution._

_Chancing my first glance at Katniss since the beginning of this little “meeting,” I can see that she has not yet comprehended Snow’s words for what they mean. I never shared my suspicions with her, unable to justify adding yet another fresh terror to inspire her nightmares. Now, though, I wish I had said something because she’s completely in the dark, about to be blind- sighted in the worst possible way. But for all her confusion, Katniss is no less defiant as she stares boldly back into the President’s icy glare. Caught in a deadly staring contest with the devil himself._

_Snow’s hands are folded in front of him on the desk, his snake-like tongue darting out to moisten his lips, but his eyes begin to move away from hers. He allows his gaze to rove up and down her body, (which, in one of Cinna’s beautifully crafted dresses is accentuated to its full potential) an expression of intense hunger twisting his face._

_Rage and anger flare up in me like never before. How dare he look at her like that? How dare he sit there, cool and collected as ever, while condemning us to this terrible fate? He is a disgusting, perverted man, and I have the sudden urge to strangle him with my bare hands. If I was alone with him, I might do just that. The Peacekeepers outside the door would surely kill me, but that is a risk I would be willing to take. It’s Katniss’s life I won’t risk, so I remain seated in my chair, the knuckles of my hand stark white from my restraining grip on the armrests._

_“What are you saying? Are you going to sell us, then?” I spit. Anything to get him to stop salivating at Katniss like a starving Seam child looks at a loaf of bread in the bakery window. He turns toward me slowly, smile back in place on his repulsive face. Katniss whips her head to me as well, her eyes wide, hands clasped over her mouth. She’s finally understood._

_“Well, well, you catch on fast, don’t you Mr. Mellark?” Snow’s leer does not waver, but his tone is colored with surprise, evidently impressed that I caught on so quickly. I don’t dignify his statement with a response though, so after a moment of heavy silence, he continues. “The answer to your question is yes and no. You see the star- crossed lovers are a matched set. We wouldn’t want to destroy the illusion of your great ‘love’ to the entire country by having you_ service _other people. Secrets such as that have a way of getting out, do they not? Your relationship would be ruined in the eyes of the public, and I might just find myself with a full- scale rebellion on my hands.” He gives a mirthless laugh, as though the idea is ludicrous._

_Again, I keep my face impassive because I’m waiting with baited breath for the kicker, and sure enough, it comes._

_“However, the demand is higher than ever, and I have several people ready to pay exorbitant amounts of money for the pair of you, and so I have decided on an alternative. You will sleep with each other instead. On camera.”_

_My insides don’t seem to exist anymore. The bomb Snow just dropped has vaporized them, and I sit in the chair a useless puddle of sinewy skin and blinding fury._

_I want to kill him. This man personally responsible for the deaths of hundreds of children for the entertainment of other despicable people; this man who prostitutes the rest. I want to rage about the injustice of it all, but I have no power here. Any outward display of emotion-anger, fear, or otherwise- could cost me dearly. Snow would see it as a weakness, and I refuse to show any such thing in front of him. Never again will I allow myself to be the pathetic, crying boy on the reaping stage._

_Katniss looks as though she may be sick; her hands, like mine, gripping her armrests. I have the sudden desire to pry her hand from the chair and run far away and never look back. But that is not an option. We are Snow’s prey, trapped in this room with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and the maniacal grin on his face proves that he knows it._

_With us- his targets- cornered, Snow opens those bloated lips of his, and through his curiously stained teeth, he says, “Filming begins tomorrow.”_

 

*****

 

“Peeta?” Katniss’s shaky whisper shatters the silence in our dark Capitol bedroom. She’s snuggled into her usual spot against my chest, and even before she spoke into the night, I could tell by the absence of her usual deep breathing and soft snores that I was not the only one lying awake. 

“Hmm?” I say, turning my head so I can look into her eyes. They have become a bewitching shade of silver in the moonlight streaming through the open window. 

“Have you ever…” she trails off, unable to vocalize the rest of the question. She doesn’t need to, though, because I know her so well by now. It seems that her mind, like mine, refuses to dwell on anything but what we are to do only a few short hours from now.

“Had sex?” I finish the question for her and answer it in one fell swoop. “Twice.” 

Her body stiffens against me in the dark, her fingers retract against my chest, but all she says is, “Oh.” There’s a foreign emotion tainting her voice that I can’t quite define. Jealousy perhaps? Or is it resentment? I can’t be sure because after my confession I’m determined not to look at her. I trace my forefinger on the comforter’s pattern to avoid her piercing gaze.

Katniss doesn’t push for details, however, and I’m glad because I would rather forget those other girls, too. After all was said and done, neither of them really meant anything to me. They were just poor substitutes for the girl huddled against me now- the girl who will never want me back. At the very least, this conversation does open the door for me to ask the question that’s been nagging in the back of mind for years now, whenever I saw her with _him_. 

“What about you?” I’m careful to ask it in a delicately detached tone and avoid any words that will cause her further discomfort (i.e. _sex_ and _Gale_ ).

To my surprise, I feel her shake her head _no_ on the pillow next to me. I finally let my eyes flit back to hers. “Really?” I shouldn’t push it but I have to know for sure. “Not even Gale…?” 

“No,” Katniss says firmly. “No, I never… It’s not like _that_ between us. I found out after the Games that he wanted… but I never did.” Despite our current predicament, the jealous, self- indulgent side of myself that I try so hard to ignore (yet nevertheless exists) rejoices. I’ve already gotten further with Katniss than Gale could ever dream.

We lay in tense silence for another moment before Katniss speaks again. Her bottom lip is clenched between her teeth, and her beautiful sterling eyes are on the verge of tears. “I don’t want my first time to be on camera,” she chokes out before a single tear slides down her cheek. I swipe it away with my thumb and crush her even closer to my chest as if I can hide her away from the world. I want nothing more than to keep her safe in my arms, because I know exactly where this is headed and I don’t like it. It feels all wrong. “Can we…” she doesn’t finish the though, but again, it doesn’t matter. I know what she wants. And I can’t do it. 

“Katniss…" 

“Please? It’s going to happen tomorrow anyway, and I… I can’t let Snow take that, too,” she pleads with me, and I know immediately that I’ll surrender. I’ve always had a weakness for the girl with the braid, the girl who sings so beautifully that even the birds stop to listen. I can deny her nothing when she begs it of me. Besides, I’ve wanted this so badly for such a long time. It’s just that I never though it would be like this. 

All at once, the innumerable fantasies I’ve dreamt up over the years as I stroked myself in the dead of night swim to the forefront of my mind. 

_Katniss_ , below me and moaning in ecstasy, her luscious body inviting me deeper into its exquisite depths. _Katniss_ , squirming with need as I tease her relentlessly. _Katniss_ , writhing and screaming my name as she comes… 

_Shit_. I’m getting hard just thinking about it, and here’s the real thing right in front of me, begging me to do it here and now. A single glance into her terrified, steadfast face snaps any of my remaining restraint in half. 

I sigh, resigned to do this for her. “Okay, but I want you to tell me to stop at any point if you’re hurt or uncomfortable. “ She gives a jerky nod of her head, her trembling fingers reaching for the hem of her nightgown, but I stay her wrists. “No,” I shake my head, “We’re gonna take it slow.” 

If I must do this, I decide, I’m going to do it right. I’m going ensure that this is as pleasurable as possible for her. I’m going to make Katniss Everdeen scream for me.

Caressing her flushed olive cheek with my hand, I lower my mouth to hers- the very first time with no audience whatsoever. I’m so nervous that it seems to take forever for our lips to meet, but when they finally do, hers are warm and soft, pliable against my own. This is how we always kiss for the cameras and the crowds; it’s never gone further than the chaste moving of lips and occasional fumbling of hands, but this time I let my tongue trace the seam of her mouth. She startles at first, but soon welcomes the intrusion, allowing me to lave my tongue over hers. She lets me savor her, taste her, explore her mouth before she begins to respond with equal enthusiasm, sucking my bottom lip into her mouth to worry it gently between her teeth.

I can’t contain the strangled moan that escapes my throat, and it seems to spur Katniss’s confidence. Her hands are gradually unclenching from their tight fists to glide over my neck and shoulders, leaving a trail of burning heat as she goes. 

Following Katniss’s lead, I let my fingers trace only as far as hers. When her hands trail along my neck and back, I let mine smooth over the satin skin of her shoulders. I find the end of her long braid and comb my fingers through the plaits until her hair fans in glossy waves on the feather pillow.

Gradually, I move my lips from hers to suckle lightly at her neck, planting small, wet kisses along her collarbone. I make my way down further, and she gasps when I reach the curve of her breast peeking out from the low neckline of her nightgown. My eyes snap to make contact with hers, silently asking if this is okay. In answer, she twists her fingers into the hair at the nape of my neck, guiding me down to her chest. I pepper the tops of her breasts with small kisses; tease her hard nipples through the thin fabric still hiding them from view.

I can practically see her heart pounding in her chest as she pants, arching into me in search of more contact, but I wrench myself away from her to lift the hem of her nightdress. Together, we pull it over her head and let the silky material float to the floor. 

I could swear my heart stops beating as I drink in the sight of the gloriously naked girl below me, her lacy underwear the only scrap of material remaining on her body. _God, she’s so beautiful._ Her breasts are small, but still round and perfect and topped with peaked, rosy nipples that no one’s ever seen before. _Only me._ The thought makes me grow even harder, my cock twitching with need in the confines of my shorts.

But I can’t do anything about that yet. This is the first time I’ll be with a girl who’s never done this before, and the advice my brothers gave to me from what feels like a lifetime ago comes to mind. _You have to loosen her up first. Relax her, make her feel good. And don’t you dare come before she does._

Although it’s dark, I can still see the color rising to Katniss’s cheeks as I stare. She seems to be having an internal struggle- her natural instinct likely being to cover herself, to hide her vulnerability as she so often does behind her bow and arrow. Yet she resists the temptation to conceal her nakedness, keeping her arms stiffly at her sides and allowing me to see all of her. I long to reassure her, to tell her how flawless and stunning and _amazing_ she is.

But I can’t.

I remind myself that she doesn’t love me, not the way that I love her. She doesn’t even truly want this. We’ve been forced into this situation, I have to keep that in mind. I can’t let my feelings for her distress and confuse her further. And yet these feelings for her are so overwhelming, so all- consuming, that I can almost forget that we’ll have to do this on camera in less than 24 hours. Almost.

Eventually, my desire for Katniss outweighs the Capitol taint of the whole thing, and pushing aside the unpleasant thoughts, I drop my head back to her chest. She moans low in her throat when I lavish my tongue over each of her erect nipples in turn. I let my fingers drift down her stomach to the waistband of her underwear. When I pull them off, I find her completely bare.

This is not of Katniss’s own volition, of course, but evidence of the grueling, hours- long prepping she’d endured earlier in the day. Even my own prep time had been much more involved than it was for the Hunger Games, because the audience will see _everything_ this time. Each burn scar I’d managed to gain in the time I’d been back home, along with every unsavory blemish on my body had been buffed clean away, although unlike Katniss, I had been allowed to keep most of my natural body hair. 

I rather like the feel of her silken folds against my fingers, but I know it’s only adding to her self- consciousness and increasing her feeling of vulnerability because her thighs clench together at my touch. Moving my hand down her soft thigh, I let my lips find hers again, kissing her slowly, deeply, seeking to reassure and calm her. 

“You need to let yourself relax,” I murmur into her mouth. “Deep breaths.” She follows my advice, taking several long, shuddering breaths. “Good,” I praise her, giving her the softest of kisses. “Have you ever touched yourself, Katniss?” She pulls away from me, eyes wide, and gives a tiny nod, an even darker flush staining her cheeks. 

“Show me.” 

She hesitates, but takes my hand and directs it to the glistening bud of nerves at her center. She moves my fingers in the tight, circular motions she likes, and once I catch the rhythm, I remove her fingers. Soon she’s gripping my biceps, panting for breath and writhing beneath me. 

It’s even better than I imagined. 

I can see her struggling to hold on, her firm grip on me anchoring her to reality. I let one of my fingers slide into her slick arousal, curling it forward, and forcing a strained, mewling whimper from her mouth. My cock throbs with need again. She is close. 

“Come on, Katniss. Come for me,” I urge her, increasing the pressure on her clit and adding a second finger inside of her.

It happens in an instant. Her back bows off the bed, her head falls back, and a strangled, divine scream emits from her throat.

I can’t take it anymore. While she comes down from her high, gasping and shaking, I whip off my shirt and pants to allow my stiff, aching cock to spring free at last. Her eyes widen as she takes in the sight of me, finally naked before her. There is both longing and apprehension on her face. 

Following her gaze as it trails down my body, it is then that I remember the leg. “Sorry,” I mutter, shifting so that my prosthetic is behind me. I know that Katniss has seen glimpses of the leg, but never in its entirety. I always wear long pants to bed for fear of disgusting her with its presence. I’ve grown used to it in the months since the Games, having grudgingly accepted that it is now a part of me. For the most part, the high- quality equipment functions like a normal leg should, but I still hate that an essential piece of myself is a product of the Capitol. 

Katniss, however, surprises me with her response. “No, it’s not that… it’s your… um, I don’t think you’ll fit,” she says in a barely audible whisper, the blush coloring her cheeks darker than ever in the moonlight. 

I have to force back a smile. Sometimes I forget just how pure Katniss really is. It’s funny to think that this girl can face down bears in the woods without breaking a sweat, can murder others to ensure her own survival, and yet the sight of a naked man intimidates her. It actually endears me more to her, and I almost hate to be the one to destroy that innocence. I also don’t want to hurt her. I never want anything to hurt Katniss. 

I bend to kiss her once more, swiping the loose hairs from her sweaty face as I go. “We don’t have to do it if you don’t want,” I assure her. The last thing I want is to force myself on her, despite the situation. But there is something else in Katniss’s eyes- the steely glint of determination. She has already made up her mind. 

She keeps her grey eyes locked on mine as she reaches tentatively toward my cock. Her small hand just manages to wrap around the base and she strokes the shaft from base-to-tip once, twice, three times. It feels so good, I’m forced to follow my own advice and take deep breaths to calm down. I won’t last long if she keeps doing this. 

Before she goes too far, I roll us suddenly so that Katniss hovers over me. “What-“ she sputters, clearly thrown off by this turn of events.

“You’re going to be on top,” I explain gently. “This way you can set the pace. You can go as slow or as fast as you need.” She’s still eyeing me apprehensively, nerves etched in every line of her face, but her conviction wins out. She swings her leg over my stomach so that she’s straddling me, my cock trapped between our sweaty bodies.

“Wait!” Another piece of my brothers’ advice suddenly floods my brain. _Condoms, little brother. Never forget. Mom would skin you alive if you ever got a girl pregnant. Unless of course, the baby is a girl…_ “I don’t have anything. You know, to prevent-“ 

“Oh! Um, they gave me a shot today during prep, so we don’t have to worry about… um… about anything,” Katniss assures me awkwardly. 

I guess that will save us from having to deal with condoms on camera tomorrow, but I’m glad it will serve for our purposes tonight because I’m not sure I could stop now even if I wanted to. I can feel the hot, wet puddle of her center against me, and I want nothing more than to push myself up into her dripping heat. But I resist, watch her line me up at her entrance, and _oh_. 

It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to come the instant my head disappears into her folds. A groan escapes me as she takes me farther into her body. My hands fist in the sheets from the effort of holding back from thrusting the rest of the way into her. Instead, I train my focus on the incredibly strong, beautiful girl before me. Her face is twisted in pain but she refuses to give into it as she sinks ever lower onto me. I have nothing but love and admiration for her. 

Then all at once, my entire length is sheathed within her and she collapses onto my chest with an agonized whimper. I feel horrible. I never wanted to hurt her, never wanted to be the cause of her pain. The guilt is almost enough to distract myself from the incredible feeling of being inside her. 

I smooth my hands tenderly up and down Katniss’s back; run them through her silky hair, whisper soothing comforts in her ear. “That’s right, Katniss. You did so well. Take your time,” I tell her, contenting myself with suckling gently at the sweet, salty skin at the base of her neck while she breathes raggedly against my chest. 

We gasp in unison when she finally shifts herself on top of me, my hips bucking upward of their own accord. I search her face for any sign of further discomfort, but find none, so I thrust again. This time it is slower, a delicious torture as I reach to the very deepest point of her. She braces her hands on my chest, rolls her hips experimentally, and together we find a steady rhythm. The discomfort seems to be fading from Katniss’s features, and wanting her to feel the same overwhelming pleasure that I do, I begin to circle my thumb over her sensitive bundle of nerves again. Breathless whines tumble from her plush lips, and among the indistinguishable sounds falling from her mouth, one word is clear: 

“ _Peeta_ ,” Katniss mewls, and that is it.         

My name is a divine prayer on her lips and the sound of it sends me hurtling over the edge into an abyss of pleasure. Stars burst behind my eyelids, and along with the ecstasy thrumming through my veins is pure _love_ for the girl in my bed now. She is the only real thing in the entire world. Katniss, the girl with the raven- colored braid and the smoky eyes; the girl who can silence the birds with her angelic voice. I love her and she loves me. In this moment, we are one.

And then it is gone. 

I’m brought back to earth with a resounding shock when I open my eyes to see the Capitol seal in a frame on the opposite wall. The reality of our situation crashes down upon me, and I remember why we’re here, why I’d been reluctant to do this in the first place. 

It’s not real. None of it is real. 

The girl splayed across my chest does not love me, and I am a fool for allowing myself to believe- even for a second- that she does. The lump in my throat is forming quickly; tears are pricking my eyes. I have to get away before they spill over.

Rolling out from underneath her as quickly as I can, I mutter something about needing to use the bathroom. When I get there, I lock the door and turn on the shower before allowing the grief and rage and shame to overtake me. 

The tears flow hot and salty down my cheeks, but I make no effort to stop them. I step into the scalding shower, wanting desperately to wash the heady combination of sex and bodily fluids from myself. I scrub my freshly buffed skin relentlessly until it is red and raw- my prep team will no doubt be horrified when they see it tomorrow morning- but I don’t care. I feel used, filthy, despicable; and no amount of scrubbing can change that. 

It is a long time later when I finally emerge from the bathroom, eyes swollen and skin stinging. Katniss is curled in a ball under the tangle of blankets on the bed, once again dressed in her nightgown. I doubt that she’s really asleep, but it is easier to pretend than to face what we have done- what we will have to do again in a few short hours- and so I let her lie still and silent while I locate my pajama pants. 

What I do not expect when I climb into bed is for her to snuggle up against me; but she does, and I find myself wrapping my arms around her like every other night. She buries her face in my chest again. I can feel tears on her cheeks, her heartbeat pounding erratically against mine. These things seem to say what Katniss herself cannot: _I’m sorry_. 

And just like that, my heart melts for this girl, my anger at her long dissipated. It is not fair to blame Katniss, not really. She is in the exact same position as me and we _are_ a team, after all. Snow wants to turn us against each other, but I will not let that happen. I know who the real enemy is, and it is certainly _not_ the teenaged girl nestled in my arms. 

This knowledge solidifies my resolve. Snow can throw whatever he wants at us, but the star-crossed lovers of District 12 will stand united. Always.

I press a lingering kiss to the top of Katniss’s head, a silent apology for abandoning her so suddenly. She burrows closer to me in response. I tighten my arms around her, close my eyes, and will sleep to overtake me. We’ll at least need to be well rested if we are to repeat this performance for the cameras tomorrow night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! As of now this is a one-shot. However, if it garners enough interest, I might consider adding to it. Please let me know in the comments what you think so I know if it's even worth writing more! 
> 
> You can find/message/follow me on tumblr at: everlarkstoastbabies dot tumblr dot com


	2. Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'd like to that everyone for the comments and kudos on this fic! Every single one of you holds a special place in my heart, and you've inspired me to continue with this story. I'm calling the first part the prologue with this chapter picking up a few months later. I toyed with the idea of continuing it through Peeta’s POV, but I started writing and it came out as Katniss. It makes more sense with the arc of the story, so the rest will be told from her perspective.
> 
> Again, please be aware that this fic contains adult content. Without further ado, here is Part 1!

**_ Katniss_**

I’m staring up at the ceiling, just waiting for it to end. It feels like we’ve been in this room for hours and it’s a struggle for me to contort the grimace on my face into an expression of pleasure or lust or ecstasy as Peeta thrusts roughly in and out of me.

My eyes slip from their determined stare at the crown molding to find his immaculately blue eyes just inches from my face. I can’t miss the sincere apology in their crystalline depths.

He hates doing this to me, maybe even more than I despise it myself. But he sees the conflict in my eyes and dutifully dips his head to kiss the scowl from my lips, firm and sloppy, but still tender as only Peeta can be. He won’t let them see my weakness. He covers for me in front of the cameras just as he always has done, perpetually helping to camouflage my sore lack of acting ability. His soft lips leave mine for a quick moment when he gives an almost imperceptible nod of his head. He is close. 

We’ve developed a sort of short- hand during the many occasions we’ve had to “perform” here in this room. As a result, my knowledge of Peeta’s body and mannerisms surpasses my ability to read even Gale’s in all our years of hunting together as a seamless team.

Peeta’s nod is my cue. I throw back my head and arch my chest into his, letting out a loud, exaggerated moan in an attempt to exude the epitome of pleasure. Apparently I’ve failed again, however, because Peeta swallows my moan in another kiss. With a final deep thrust from him, I feel his release. 

He slumps on top of me, careful to keep most of his weight on his elbows. I know he does not assume this position out of exhaustion, but to give me a minimal amount of modesty and protection from the prying cameras. Not that it really matters. In our several weeks of these “sessions,” as President Snow refers to them, the wealthiest of the Capitol’s citizens have seen the entirety of my body from every angle possible.

Still, the gesture is sweet and so incredibly _Peeta_ that it makes my heart swell. My teeth sink into my bottom lip to hold back the tears and vomit threatening to choke me.

It’s a marked improvement from our first session, after which I hadn’t been able to hold back at all, and had proceeded to retch all over the floor. The guilt that haunted Peeta’s features in that moment has never really gone away. It faded after some time, but always reappears when we’re here in this room. So eventually I learned to control my emotions. It is something with which I have years of practice, but is somehow much more difficult to do here in this room where I am naked and open and vulnerable for the world to see.

Despite this, I have mastered the careful, emotionless mask currently plastered on my face. Both to shield myself from the gawking cameras and to save Peeta from seeing the pain I feel inside. I can’t deny that he is more perceptive than I give him credit for, though. He always sees through my mask. It’s merely his own agony reflected back at him through my own eyes. 

Peeta’s panting breaths begin to slow the longer we lay here together. I long to touch him. To stroke his hair or caress his face as his heart rate returns to normal, but my hands are tightly bound to the bedpost above my head- a special request from President Snow himself. 

_“A wonderful opportunity to make use of the knots you learned in training,”_ Snow had told us, his unnaturally plump lips bared in a menacing smile.  I try not to shudder at the memory, and settle for kissing Peeta’s shoulder instead, hoping the gesture comes across as comforting. 

Finally, the familiar knock comes at the door to signify the end of the session. The cameras are off. The act is up. 

He peels his sweaty body away from me at last and I shiver as the cool air hits my damp skin. Peeta hurriedly fumbles to free my wrists, and then grabs his robe from the floor, handing it to me with his eyes averted. He always tries to give me a bit of privacy in the moments after to collect myself, but I know he also does it because he has trouble looking me in the eyes after it happens. He told me once that it feels like he is violating me over and over again, and I suppose that is true in a way. I don’t want to do it, but neither does he. Not like this.

I can feel the soreness setting in on my body already, as it always does after a long week of filming in the Capitol. My arms and legs feel like leaden weights as I lay wrapped in the robe on the silk sheets of the bed. I don’t think I could move even if I wanted to. 

Peeta returns to sit down at the foot of the bed to pull on his pants. It’s then that I see the angry, pink streaks on his back where my stiletto heels had dug into his pale skin. The sight of it endeavors me to move at last, my head swimming as I sit up and crawl to the edge of the mattress, ghosting my fingers over the raised wounds.  

“I’m sorry,” I murmur at last, giving the marks a tender kiss. “I didn’t realize I dug in so hard.”

Peeta turns his reproachful gaze on me. “It’s not your fault, Katniss,” he says quietly. “I know you hate those shoes.” A look of understanding passes between us. We both hate the shoes. I bite my lip again to stave off the tears.

Peeta stands swiftly, pulls on his shirt, and ventures across the room to where my clothes lay in a heap. When he returns, he hooks my bra around my back for me, then slips my dress over my shoulders before bending to assist me with the bands of the unforgiving heels. Once he has freed the last strap, I fling the hateful thing off my foot and across the room, where it leaves a sizeable dent in the wall. 

_Good. Maybe they won’t trust me with those anymore._

My spiteful thought is mirrored in Peeta’s furrowed brow. After a brief pause during which we sulk at the dented wall, he slides my much more comfortable and practical flats onto my feet, then grabs my hand.

On the way out of this hated room, we’re careful to tiptoe around the shredded pieces of what was once my “costume” as though it will burst into flames if we were to touch it. I have to choke back the vomit again.

Back on the train, Peeta holds me close and strokes my hair as I cry myself to sleep.

 

*****

 

The next morning, I wake to Haymitch banging on the door of our train compartment. “Get up, you two! We’ll be back to twelve in an hour!” Haymitch gives the door one final pound with his fist before the sound of his heavy footsteps fades down the hallway. Headed for the bar, probably. 

Haymitch, in all honesty, does not need to make these trips to the Capitol, but he grudgingly goes under the guise of “victor’s duties” with Peeta and me. This way, my mother, Prim, and Peeta’s family will remain none the wiser about what really occurs there. 

Once I peel my face away from Peeta’s tear- stained shirt, he rolls out of the bed and traipses into the bathroom, returning a few moments later with a cool, damp rag. 

“For the puffiness,” he explains, placing the cloth over my eyes.

Of course. My fit last night was bound to leave its mark, and Prim and my mother can’t find out about it. Peeta rubs my back as I hold the cloth to my face, but doesn’t offer anything more in the way of conversation. It’s no use talking about it. There is nothing we can do. Not if we want to keep our families safe. Snow had been crystal clear on that. 

_“Filming begins tomorrow.”_

_My heart pounds in my throat as I absorb Snow’s words. I try to be like Peeta, who -thanks to his superb acting skills- looks positively relaxed. If I didn’t know him so well, I might even think he was bored. The only thing betraying his stress is his white-knuckled grip on the arm of his chair. But I don’t have that capability. I’m overwhelmed with the information I’ve just been given, and the cloying stench of blood and roses reeking from every corner of this room is not helping. I’m close to hyperventilating as my breath comes out in sharp gasps._

_My only thought is that I must stop this from happening. “You can’t make us do this!” I blurt without thinking. The president inclines his head pleasantly toward me._

_“Certainly. If that is your choice, then so be it. You may be on your way, and please, do give my regards to that precious little sister of yours.”_

_At this, he has me. And he knows it. His unfathomable eyes tell me so. Snow quirks his head, the evil leer curling his lips before he elaborates further. “Primrose, isn’t it?” he says, savoring the effect his threat has on me. “She’s still of reaping age, if I remember correctly. It would be a shame if anything happened to her.”_

_The nausea- inducing scent of blood curls into my nostrils as he address me directly. I hang my head, defeated. “Yes it would,” I mutter._

_“Let that sentiment extend to all of your other family members as well. Your lovely mother, not to mention all those ‘_ cousins _.’” The look he gives me says clearly that he knows the Hawthorne’s are not related to me. But he is not yet finished._

_“And as for you, Mr. Mellark, I understand that your family runs the bakery back in your charming district?” Peeta gives a sharp nod of his head. “Well, do tell them to stay safe. Twelve has all that coal dust in the air, and those ovens at the bakery… well, accidents happen. Let’s hope they don’t.”_

_“Yes sir,” Peeta says coolly._

_“Excellent. Now you will both be escorted to your prep teams to await further instructions,” Snow says, summoning two Peacekeepers into the room. “Oh, and by the way… Congratulations on your engagement.”_

_Peeta grabs my hand and I turn away from Snow’s satisfied face, desperate to leave this place as the Peacekeepers usher us from the room._

Once Peeta and I are dressed and seated in the dining car, Haymitch takes his place at the table, eying us warily. 

“Rough night?” he asks, gesturing with his fork to the swelling that still lingers around my bloodshot eyes. Peeta shoots him a dark look before giving a tight- lipped answer. 

“It wasn’t the easiest, no.” 

“Well, you better get used to it. Until you’re both too old and washed up like me,” says Haymitch. “Really, you two should count yourselves lucky. Look at Finnick.”

“Enough, Haymitch!” Peeta glares at our mentor, silently daring him to continue. 

“I’m just saying, it could be worse,” he shrugs, ignoring Peeta’s warning. I clutch a steak knife in my hand and try to fight the sudden, violent urge to fling it at Haymitch. 

The reality that Peeta and I, “the star-crossed lovers of District 12,” will be summoned to the Capitol every few months to perform whatever erotic fantasies the perverted president and his advisors dream up hits me with the force of a freight train. There is no end in sight. Not until we succumb to an addiction of some kind and become too undesirable for the job, anyway. 

I regard Haymitch as he takes a swig from his pocket flask, thinking fleetingly that it might not be so bad- an alcohol addiction. Numb the pain and bring you closer to death at the same time. Win- win. Only I still have Prim depending on me, whereas Haymitch has nothing but Ripper’s white liquor and his lonely home in the Victor’s Village.  

Still, I find myself strangely jealous of my mentor. His family is already long gone in punishment for outwitting the Gamemakers. Inadvertently, Haymitch had sold the lives of his loved ones for his so- called freedom. I wonder if he thinks it is worth it.

One glance in the haunted, watered- down gray eyes of the drunk tells me that it isn’t. 

Somehow, this knowledge hardens my weakening resolve. I’m doing this for Prim, although I’m adamant that she will _never_ find out about this. But it does make the whole situation a little easier for me to stomach. 

I squeeze Peeta’s hand in my own and dig into my breakfast plate. When the train rolls into the station, Prim is there to meet us and I smile for the first time in weeks.

 

*****

 

Peeta is always careful to give me my space in the days after we arrive home from the Capitol. He usually withdraws into his empty house and busies himself with his baking or his painting, or whatever it is that Peeta does to numb the pain and humiliation. For my part, I take to the woods. Hunting and foraging is usually enough to occupy my mind, even though my family has more than enough now with my victor’s winnings. I still hunt for Gale’s family, though. Occasionally I’ll even spend an entire day just sitting on the crest of the hill overlooking the valley. Sometimes I dare to wonder what would have happened had I chosen to run away as Gale suggested once upon a time.

But it doesn’t really matter. Dwelling on the past will not change the present. My present, my _reality_ is putting on a show for the people of the Capitol. I am President Snow’s perfect little victor puppet, and there is nothing I can do to change that.

The day after we arrived back in District 12, I’m perched at the kitchen table cleaning my kills from this morning’s hunt while Prim chatters away about Cinna, who came to have her fitted for her bridesmaid’s dress while I was away. “Oh, Katniss, it’s just the most beautiful dress. I’m sure you’ll love it when you see it! Cinna said he picked the color to exactly match my eyes,” Prim gushes. 

I smile and nod in all the right places, hoping that my sister doesn’t notice that my heart is really not in the conversation. Thinking about the approaching wedding makes my stomach churn.

_“Wouldn’t it be lovely to hold the wedding right after the festivities of the Quarter Quell?”_ Snow exclaimed jovially to the excitable crowd directly after Peeta’s proposal. With that, it was decided. The wedding is to be an outrageously lavish affair held at the president’s mansion, and then there is the wedding _night_ to worry about, which will undoubtedly be filmed. The entire situation looms like a dark mass of storm clouds over my head. 

Unfortunately for me, Prim is much too sharp for the average twelve- year- old. Her cheerful talk falters when she sees the look on my face. “Katniss, are you okay?” she questions. “You look pale. Maybe you should lay down for a while.” 

“No, no. I’m fine, little duck. Still tired from the trip, that’s all.” I do my best to plaster a convincing smile on my face. Prim eyes me suspiciously, but says nothing more. I go back to gutting the squirrel and keep my eyes averted from my sister’s concerned gaze.

Hours later I lay awake in bed, unable to sleep or concentrate on anything but the fact that Peeta’s warm, secure body is not wrapped around my own. I have to remind myself that I’m not supposed to miss him, but I can’t deny that without him, my sleeping mind succumbs to the nightmares. I know they’re lurking in my subconscious, just waiting for my brain to shut down for the night. To become vulnerable to the images I work so hard to repress while I’m awake. 

With a sigh of frustration, I turn to look at my clock. Three in the morning. I could sneak out now and spend a few hours with Peeta until he wakes with the sun as usual, then return home before my family knows I’m gone.

But I can’t really do that. Going to Peeta right now would violate the tentative boundaries we unwittingly put in place when we’re home in District 12. I’ll admit that I’m not sure exactly _what_ we are here, but I think we are something resembling friends. Nothing more. 

I haven’t even spoken to Peeta since we arrived back in the district yesterday, despite the fact that he dropped off a couple of fresh loaves of bread before making his rounds in the Seam this morning. It dawns on me that he must be very lonely if he has time to bake so much bread. I know that his family refused to move in with him after the Games, preferring to remain above the bakery they still need to run, and Haymitch is so drunk most of the time that he doesn’t make for very pleasant company.

The thought causes an overwhelming surge of guilt to wash over me. I don’t know how to handle this new, delicate relationship with Peeta, so I’ve essentially abandoned him like the rest of the people in his life. I accept his comfort and reassurance when we’re alone, but leave him to his own devices when we’re back home in the real world. I take everything he offers and give nothing in return. 

I realize that it’s not just now that I don’t know how to act around Peeta. It’s always been that way between us. From the time he gave me the bread until that fateful reaping ceremony, we spent years exchanging nothing but the occasional awkward glance from opposite ends of the schoolyard. And now that there’s so much more between us, I’m still lost around him. 

I don’t know what it is about the boy with the bread that has this effect on me. There is just something about Peeta that leaves me pondering for hours in the dark, my thoughts and feelings all jumbling together into a confusing mass of emotions until they are no longer distinguishable. Usually I give up at this point and try to push them all aside. Lock them into a drawer in the back of my mind, but I’m finding that strategy no longer works. The drawer is getting too full. I’ll have to deal with its contents eventually. 

I’m not really one for words, but I find myself desperately wishing there was someone who could help me sort it all out. But I am Katniss Everdeen- tough and proud, close to so few people. Katniss Everdeen, who keeps her feelings so secret and guarded that I’m not even sure of them myself. 

My mother, Gale, Haymitch, Cinna, even Prim- none of them would be able to fully appreciate my situation. Haymitch might have some small understanding, but there is no bit of drunken advice he could give that I haven’t heard from him already. _Consider yourselves lucky…_ wafts through my mind and I give an involuntary shudder. 

If I’m being honest with myself, the only person with whom I’ve ever been truly unguarded and vulnerable is Peeta himself. He has seen the pain in my eyes as we’ve been exploited for the pleasure of the Capitolite viewing audience. He has witnessed my weakness and allowed me to sob freely into his shoulder at night. But going to see him with our murky boundaries still firmly in place isn’t an option anymore than it is going to Haymitch at the moment.  

Resigned to the fact that I’m on my own for the night, I huff angrily and roll on my side. I curl in upon myself and try to rest without the embrace of the strong, comforting arms to which I have grown so accustomed. Sleep never comes. 

My bad mood persists for the duration of my hunt the next morning; I’m grateful at least that Gale is preoccupied in the mines, for he surely would have asked what is wrong. My spirits lift slightly when I stumble upon the strawberry patch in the woods, finding it overflowing with ripe fruit. 

Before I know it, I’m on the Undersee’s doorstep with a large bushel in my hands.

Madge’s face breaks into a smile when she opens the door to see me standing there. “Katniss! I didn’t know you were back yet,” she says by way of greeting.

I hold up the strawberries. “No trades today, but I thought you might like to share,” I offer timidly. Madge gives a friendly nod and leads me through her house and into the cavernous kitchen, where she sets to washing the fruit. In a flash, she’s pulled out some fancy dishes and handed me a large bowl of strawberries adorned with a dollop of cream. 

“So how was the Capitol?” Madge takes a seat next to me at the table and tucks into her own bowl. I shrug.

“Same as usual. Colorful. Loud.” _Perverted. Vomit- inducing,_ I add in my head. I know better than to speak my mind here in the Mayor’s mansion, which is surely bugged. Madge nods, seeming to understand without further explanation on my part.

“Well I met Cinna while you were away,” she says, spearing a strawberry with her fork. 

“Oh right, Prim told me he was here. Did you like him?” 

“Not at all what I expected from a Capitol guy, from what I’ve seen from Effie Trinket and on TV,” Madge says, chewing thoughtfully. “But he was really nice. And my dress is stunning, so I can only imagine how beautiful yours is.” My stomach gives a sharp twang. We are already at the wedding, the very topic I can’t bear to discuss. I dive into the bowl of strawberries in front of me, praying that Madge does not notice my disquiet.

But much like Prim, Madge has a subtle sort of intuitiveness about her. “Is something wrong, Katniss?” she prods gently. I allow myself a moment to ruminate on her question. I hadn’t even considered her last night at my sudden desire to discuss my problem with Peeta, and yet it was as if my subconscious had guided me to that strawberry patch this morning. Being the Mayor’s daughter, Madge might have an idea of the inner workings of the Capitol, but I can’t be sure. She is so sheltered from much of what goes on here in the district, so how much can she know about the Capitol? 

However, I decided on the way over here that Madge has proven that she truly is my friend. This is what normal girl friends do, right? Gossip about clothes and hair and, most of all, boy troubles.

She doesn’t need all the details, after all. I can leave out the role that President Snow and the potential rebellion play in it all. I don’t want my one female friendship tainted with that knowledge anyway. Besides, Madge has had her fair share of experiences with boys. She might actually have some worthy advice to give. 

Still, I choose my words with caution. “I’m just… I’m not sure about the wedding. If I’m ready for that.” Madge doesn’t seem taken aback or shocked whatsoever by this news. She forks another strawberry. 

“That’s not surprising,” she says easily. “You’re both still so young and you’ve had… well, a _long_ year to say the least. What’s the rush, anyway?”

“People kind of… expect it. You know, the star- crossed lovers thing and all.” Heat rises to my cheeks and I roll my eyes, but Madge nods thoughtfully. 

“That still doesn’t mean you should do something you’re not ready to do,” she counters. 

“But what if I don’t really have a choice?” I whisper before I can stop myself. I’m surprised to see a flickering of understanding and sympathy cross my friend’s face. Perhaps Madge _does_ know more than she’s letting on. 

“Then Katniss… I think that you are the bravest, most selfless person I’ve ever met. And for what it’s worth, Peeta really is an amazing guy. The best in the district, I think. He’ll be kind to you.” She reaches for my hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze, her kind blue eyes empathetic and sincere. To my surprise, the knot of anxiety in my stomach lessons slightly. It makes me feel a tiny bit better knowing that at least one person is on my side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've mapped out the rest of this story, and it will be approx. 8-10 parts total. I'll try my best to update regularly, but I am a busy college student and unfortunately, homework takes precedence over pleasure writing. 
> 
> That's all for now. Thank you so much for reading, and please leave a review on your way out! Nothing makes me happier than getting feedback on something I've put so much work into, and I love hearing your thoughts! 
> 
> xoxo


	3. Part 2

The next time I pass by Peeta’s lonely house after my morning hunt, I try to shove the guilt out of my mind before entering my own home. The basket of fresh cheese buns on the counter only makes me feel worse for not having visited him at all in the week that we’ve been back from the Capitol. I ought to make sure he’s doing okay, but I don’t really know how to broach the meeting.

Selfless and brave, Madge called me. Well, how brave am I that I can face an arena full of tributes and mutts programmed to kill me, yet I cannot summon the courage to go and see my fiancé? 

It is sure to be an awkward meeting, but in a sudden rush of determination, I sling my game bag over my shoulder and march out of the kitchen. This has to happen at some point, and with the wedding drawing ever nearer… it should happen sooner rather than later.

Still, I stand on Peeta’s threshold for several minutes debating with myself. Should I knock? I don’t want to barge in on him, but on the other hand, we-Haymitch, Peeta, and I- don’t usually knock at each other’s doors. I reason that if I did now, it might seem too formal. That decides it. 

Before I can change my mind altogether, I take a deep breath, twist the doorknob (unlocked, as I expected) and step into his entryway. I tiptoe a few feet into the foyer and peer around the corner into the kitchen and living room. Peeta is nowhere to be seen. 

“Peeta?” I call out nervously. I’m not sure he’s even home. He could be at his family’s bakery or with Haymitch for all I know. But then I hear the rustling from above and Peeta tramps down the stairs a moment later to find me standing awkwardly in his kitchen. 

“Oh! Hey, Katniss. Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,” he says. A smudge of brown paint is streaked across his flushed cheek and I can see more clumped under his nails.

“You were painting,” I say, pointing out the obvious. 

Peeta blushes deeply, thought I can’t think why. “Um… yeah. I kind of get lost in the zone when I’m in my studio.” He runs his fingers over the top of his head, transferring the wet paint from his hands into his hair. It looks a just little bit ridiculous. 

An involuntary smile curls my lips at the sight. Standing in the soft glow of the kitchen lighting with his round, rosy cheeks and twinkling blue eyes and paint in his blonde curls, Peeta looks so boyish and innocent in this moment. Quite unlike the hardened man who has so often shared my bed. 

I realize that we’ve been standing in silence for far too long as I’ve been staring at him. My mind flounders to remember why I’m even here in the first place. Luckily, the weight of the game bag on my shoulder reminds me of my purpose. 

“Um, anyway, I wanted to thank you for all the bread you’ve been sending over. I thought you might like this.” I hold up a freshly skinned squirrel from the game bag. 

Peeta wrinkles his nose at it. The effect only serves to make him look even younger. “Uh… thanks,” he says. I hand him the squirrel and he stands with it pinched between his paint- free thumb and forefinger, clearly at a loss for what to do with it. “Ah, I guess I should put it in the fridge?” 

I snort and try not to roll my eyes, unsuccessfully. “Give it here,” I sigh. Peeta hands the squirrel back to me eagerly, watching on as I rummage through his cabinets for a bowl, fill it with a salt- water mixture, and drop the meat into it. Then I cover the bowl and stick it in the fridge. “Make sure you eat it within a couple of days, or else it’ll go bad,” I warn, spinning on my heel for the door. 

“Thanks Katniss!” he calls after me. I turn back around to grin at him.

“I could bring you another one tomorrow if you want?” I offer. Peeta’s face breaks into a shy grin. 

“I would like that.” 

It becomes our routine quickly enough. Peeta bakes enough bread to feed the entire district and I supply him with plenty of fresh game. 

One day I discover his sketchbook laying open in the living room. Flipping through it, I find that it’s filled with renderings of scenery from all over Panem. 

Some are obvious, like the beach in District 4 and the skyline of the factory smokestacks in 3. Others are subtler, not as easily identifiable as belonging to a certain district if you hadn’t been there to witness it. Like the stalks of wheat from 11 and the bark of a tree in 7. One thing the drawings all have in common is the absolutely exquisite detail. I knew Peeta was good- I’ve seen his paintings, after all- but the sketchbook is just a testament to how talented he truly is. 

When I ask Peeta how he possibly had time to draw all of this during our Victory Tour- because that had to have been when he did the majority of this work, yet I had never witnessed him doing it- he says, “Well, your prep time takes a lot longer than mine. I had a lot of free time on my hands.” He chuckles, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s an escape. I needed something to draw other than my nightmares.” 

At his admission, his eyes become downcast and the rare lighthearted moment between us slips away. 

Nevertheless, I take to bringing my family’s book of medicinal and edible herbs to his house in the weeks after I find his sketchbook. We never discuss the encroaching wedding or our time together in the Capitol, but I find a soothing comfort in watching Peeta draw the plants as I describe them to him.

His brow furrows in concentration as he tries to get the sketch exactly right and he has a habit of pinching his full, pink lips between his teeth. Sometimes the tip of his tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth and I’m overwhelmed with memories of what that tongue tastes like. How it feels, so soft and warm and languid against my own. Usually when this happens I squirm in my place next to him, unable to sit still. 

Sometimes I ask him to redo a drawing just so I can watch him all over again. 

One day I enter Peeta’s kitchen to find him nowhere in sight. He does not appear when I call out for him, so I leave my game bag on the kitchen table and go in search of him. 

“Peeta?” I call, my voice reverberating throughout the empty house. I poke my head into his bedroom, noting by the neatly made bed that he is not there. I check the bathroom- only to find that it too, is empty- before opening the door to his studio.

“Peeta? Are you in he-“ my voice falters as my eyes sweep the room. It’s positively crammed with paintings. Some of them are the same ones he showed me during the Victory Tour- the portraits of the Games and myself, mostly- but there are a few new works scattered around as well. 

The canvas leaning carelessly against a dresser in the corner depicts a sickeningly familiar room. A room with rich, golden tones and a high ceiling and an enormous bed that takes up most of the space. A lonely stiletto heel lies on the dark wood floor. 

Shivers run up my spine. I tear my eyes away, my attention refocusing on an easel in the opposite corner of the room. A plain white sheet conceals the canvas from me. 

I glance around nervously, knowing that I should not invade Peeta’s privacy like this. Really, I shouldn’t even be here when he’s clearly not home, but the curiosity is overwhelming. My stealthy hunter’s feet have carried me to the easel before I can stop myself. I clutch the sheet in my hand and pull. 

A strangled gasp leaves my mouth as my eyes fall upon my own likeness. 

It’s obvious that she is meant to be me, but the girl on the canvas is far more beautiful than I am in real life. Her painted olive cheeks are flushed and I can’t miss the sorrow that floods her unmistakable Seam gray eyes. Her hair falls in luscious, shiny waves around her shoulders. Her lips are full and pink. Her breasts peek out at the very bottom of the painting, small and rounded, impeccably captured by Peeta’s careful hand.

The girl’s painted hands are bound to the bedpost above her head with a short length of rope. I can almost feel the rough fibers rubbing my wrists raw as much as I can recall the misery in Peeta’s gentle eyes as he had completed that particular task. 

A large lump rises to my throat. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Not even bothering to replace the sheet, I make to flee from the room, but I slam right into a solid body instead. Instinctively, it seems, Peeta’s arms rise to wrap around me, holding me in place. 

I had not even heard him enter the room, despite his loud, uneven footsteps that never fail to alert me to his presence. I can’t look into his face as he holds me, fearful of his reaction to catching me snooping. 

“I-I’m sorry,” I stutter, “I shouldn’t have…” 

“No, I shouldn’t have painted it,” he says, carefully avoiding my eyes. “I’ll get rid of it.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I whisper, shaking my head. He says nothing more, but the regret is clearly evident in every premature line of his young face. It is the same look that has haunted his features since that very first session in the Capitol. The one that makes him look far older than his short seventeen years reveal. He looks like a weary, beaten- down man with no hope left in the world.

I hate that look. 

I find myself aching for Peeta back- my Peeta.  The boy that reminds me of frosting and dandelions and sunshine. The boy that threw bread to a starving little Seam girl simply because he is a kind, caring, compassionate person. But the boy with the bread is long gone. This empty shell of a man with nothing but these canvas renderings of his own hellish reality has replaced him. 

Part of that, I know, is my fault. I’ve shied away from this part of Peeta’s life. I’ve closed myself off from him when he needed me most, when I’m the only person in the world that understands. 

There is no doubt that we have become much closer, something akin to actual friends in the past couple of weeks. But at the end of the day, I always go home to my family while Peeta is left alone in an empty house, abandoned in this room to paint to cruel nightmares that haunt his mind.

I’ve spent so much time dwelling on how everything- the Games, the Capitol sessions, the impending marriage- is affecting me, and how it is disrupting my life. Not once had I stopped to think how all of it had ruined Peeta’s life, too. He never wanted this anymore than I did.

Now I come to the same conclusion that if I was to be completely honest with myself, I’d reached earlier. I need Peeta, and he needs me. It’s just that I hadn’t been able to admit it to myself at the time. The truth of this is so clearly evident in his paintings that I feel a fresh swoop of sickening guilt in my stomach. I want to say that I’m sorry for lying to Peeta, for distancing myself from him when he has been nothing but tender and sympathetic towards me. 

I open my mouth to speak, but the apology sticks in my throat. And because I don’t have Peeta’s golden tongue, the words will not come. 

So I kiss him. 

I kiss him because I’m sorry, because I have no words, and because the sudden craving for his full, soft lips hits me like an arrow to the chest. 

Peeta seems too shocked by this abrupt turn of events to respond for several seconds, but then he’s kissing me back. His mouth opens to my needy tongue and I feel like I’m on fire. 

This is nothing like our other kisses, the staged ones for the cameras. This kiss is passion and desire and hunger. It makes me want more. Our tongues dance together in the slippery heat of Peeta’s mouth for as long as possible before we have to break apart, gasping for air. 

Panting slightly, Peeta leans down to rest his forehead against mine. My hands find the hem of his paint- splattered t- shirt and push it up to his ribcage, but he catches my wrists and holds them steady, preventing me from going any further. 

“We can’t, Katniss. I… not like this. I don’t want it if it’s fake.” His statement gives me pause, but Peeta does not stop there. He lifts his head to look straight into my eyes. “And just because you’re marrying me doesn’t mean you’re stuck with me for good. We’ll do our sessions and then come home and you can be with whomever you want. Or you can be alone. I’m not going to force you to live with me or… or be with me if that’s not what you want. I just want you to be happy.” 

The words tumble from his mouth in a breathless rush. He seems determined to say everything we’ve been tiptoeing around the past few weeks. I consider what he’s telling me, what he’s willing to sacrifice for me, and I find that I don’t need to hear it. I want to be with Peeta, and not because it is forced on us. 

“No,” I say, my hands still fisted in his shirt. The words I could not say earlier bubble to the surface. “I owe you an apology. I haven’t been there for you and we’re supposed to be a team. We’re supposed to protect each other, and I… I didn’t do that. I’m so sorry.” 

Peeta opens his mouth to respond, but I cut him off. “You have to understand that I didn’t want to marry anyone. Ever. But now… I’m glad it’s you. I’m lucky it’s you. And… I want it to be real, too.” 

The last part comes out a whisper as I peek up at Peeta through my eyelashes. He looks disbelieving. “You mean it?” he asks, incredulously. I nod eagerly and bring my lips back to his. Soon he breaks away to trail kisses down my neck, my knees buckling as he teases my flesh with his tongue. 

“I want to do this right- just once before we’re married,” he breathes into my skin. 

“Okay,” I whisper.

“Then you’ll allow it?” 

“I’ll allow it.” 

With that, Peeta places his hand behind my quaking knees, scooping me into his arms and dropping me gently on the plush couch across the room. I grab his collar and pull him down to meld our lips together again while his large hands busy themselves caressing my hips, my waist, my breasts. He touches me hungrily, as though he’ll never get enough, his skilled fingers leaving a trail of burning heat in their wake. 

Soon I’m so flushed and sensitive that I can’t stand it anymore. I yank at the hem of his shirt and he finally allows me to pull it over his head. 

He has gained back the muscle he lost in the Games, and then some, it seems. Of course, I’ve seen him shirtless since then- many times- but this is the first time I have taken a moment to appreciate it. I run my hands over the hard planes of his body and through the dusting of pale blond hair on his chest. He really is beautiful. 

Peeta whips my own shirt over my head, his practiced hands easily unlatching my bra and discarding both items on the floor. 

“Can I try something new?” he whispers between frenzied kisses. “I want to make you feel good for a change.” I can only nod my consent, rendered speechless by his thumbs circling over my erect nipples. 

Suddenly, his weight disappears from on top of me. I whimper, wanting him back. But Peeta is sliding to his knees on the floor before the couch. His strong hands wrap around my hips and tug them to the edge of the seat. Ever so slowly, he pulls my pants and underwear down my legs so that I sit sprawled and bare before him. 

Despite our various sessions in the Capitol, I don’t think that Peeta has ever gotten such an intimate view of me before. It make me self- conscious as he stares hungrily at me, especially because I have not kept up with all the stringent routine of grooming and waxing that my prep team inflicted on me. As a result, a small patch of dark curls has resurfaced between my thighs. My first instinct is to clinch my legs tightly together, but Peeta anticipates this. He places his hands on my inner thighs to prevent them from closing. 

“Do you trust me, Katniss?” His voice is deep and husky, but his indigo eyes, though clouded with lust, remain gentle as they fix on mine. I can’t help but trust those eyes. 

With my nod of affirmation, his head dips between my legs. I gasp at the first trace of his tongue between my folds. The sensation is so unexpected and shocking that it is almost too much. My legs try to snap shut again, but Peeta holds them open, his tongue diving into my wet heat. 

It is plainly evident in his enthusiasm that this is something Peeta has been saving for just the two of us. He has never done this for the cameras. It makes the act feel all the more intimate. 

Peeta allows his tongue to explore my slick inner walls before making his way up to the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs. I almost scream out loud in ecstasy when he sucks the flesh into his mouth. The feeling is like nothing else in the world. My fingers wind themselves into his hair; my head falls back against the couch cushions. My eyes squeeze shut as he licks and nips and sucks to a point where I will surely explode. 

Now my thighs fall open to welcome him further and one of his hands leaves my leg to palm my aching breasts as he works. He tweaks my nipples and sucks at my flesh and it is all becoming too much… 

The warmth builds in my center, creeping out the very tips of my fingers and toes before exploding in a fiery wave of pleasure that courses through every facet of my body as I scream out Peeta’s name. 

It takes several long, blissful seconds for the pleasure to abate. My eyes open in time to see Peeta place one last kiss to the juncture of my thighs before he grins up at me. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth, too, but then something else catches my eye. 

The sinister green eyes of Glimmer’s mutt invade my periphery, pulling me back into the moment with an alarming crash. Images of the Games glare at me from every corner of the room, frighteningly realistic in Peeta’s depictions. The hellish arena and the cornucopia filled with weapons and poor, poor Rue with a spear in her stomach. There is no escaping it. 

“Hey, hey Katniss. It’s okay. Don’t look at them.” Peeta has evidently realized the source of my panicked distraction. “Look at me. Just at me,” he coaxes, climbing back onto the couch. My frantic gray eyes find his startlingly blue ones above me once more and he smiles.

I’m still naked and he is in nothing but his underwear, but I don’t feel exposed or vulnerable when Peeta lays down on his side and pulls my back flush with his chest. The feeling of his bare skin against mine is comforting, safe. I tilt my head back, searching. He knows what I want, and when his lips connect with mine, I can taste my own fluids lingering there along with the familiar sweet taste that is Peeta. The heady mixture is strangely intoxicating.

My arm wraps around his neck to pull him even closer, my fingers twisting in the hair at the nape of his neck. His lips are warm and wanting, and eventually I lose myself in the kiss. I forget about the paintings, the Games, Snow- those things no longer exist. The only thing in that matters in the entire world is the boy holding me on our little couch.  

His big, calloused hands are spanning my body again. The hardness pressed firmly against my backside registers, and I grind into it slightly, making Peeta groan into my mouth. Reaching behind me for the waistband of his underwear, we work together to shimmy them down his legs. Once they’re around his ankles, he kicks them the rest of the way off with his good foot. I tilt my hips into him and Peeta pulls my leg over his hip, shifting so that his shaft rests between my legs. I’m unable to keep the soft whimpers from falling from my mouth when he begins thrusting slowly through my folds, coating himself in my arousal. The friction sets my nerves tingling, but it isn’t enough. I need all of him, but I can see I his eyes that he is waiting for me to give the okay. He will not do this without my full consent as we have been forced to do so often before.

This time it’s real.

I’m no good with words, so I revert back to the same secret language we use during filming. At my tiny nod of the head, Peeta aligns himself with my center, but does not push in. I squirm against him, the anticipation just too much already, but he holds me in place. 

“You’ve had your shot, right?” he questions.

I nod fervently. “Yes, yes, in the Capitol. Please, Peeta,” I beg. 

He presses his lips to mine and slides achingly slowly into my waiting heat. We moan into each other’s mouths when he is finally sheathed within me. I revel in the sensation of him filling me, stretching me, occupying a place in my heart that I didn’t even know was empty. I can’t believe that this can feel so different, so much better after all the times I’ve done this with Peeta. This time does not feel like an invasion. This time my body seems to welcome him.

With no cameras, no audience, and no pressure, I find myself able to concentrate on the intimacy of it all. The way he slips in and out of me with ease, no lubrication oil necessary like we typically need to use. The way his muscled arms hold me tight against him. The way his hands span my stomach, kneed my breasts. The sensations set my sweaty skin buzzing. 

My head falls back against Peeta’s shoulder when one of those hands drifts down between my legs again. The fire is spreading again, the waves of pleasure threatening to overtake me. 

“Let go, Katniss,” Peeta breathes into my ear. And I do. The blaze rushes through my veins, even more all- consuming than before. I can’t help the way my eyes slam shut and my back arches away from Peeta’s chest as the indescribable feeling washes over me. 

My walls contract around him, and I feel his thrusts becoming faster, harder, more erratic. He is close. 

Sure enough I feel him swell within me just seconds later. The only sounds in the room are our slowing breaths as the last vestiges of ecstasy course through our veins. 

With trembling arms, Peeta shifts so that he is lying back on the couch, then rolls me so that I’m sprawled on top of him. My head finds a natural resting place in the crook of his neck. 

I don’t know how long we lay together, breaths mingling, hearts thrumming. All I know is that this time there will be no knock on the door to bring us back into reality. The only real thing in the world is Peeta, and I will never let him go. 

It might be minutes, or maybe even hours before I break the sleepy silence between us. “Peeta, will you marry me? For real?” The words slip from my mouth before I have time to really process them.  

“What are you saying?” he asks cautiously.

“I’m saying let’s have a toasting. Tonight. That way it’s real. It’s for us and the Capitol can’t have it,” I explain hastily, desperate for him to understand. 

“I don’t want this if you’re just doing it to defy Snow.” Peeta shakes his head stubbornly. 

“Peeta, I do want this. I want to marry you. I just… I want it to be our choice. It should be our moment, not theirs. Let’s do this right. Will you marry me?” I’m out of breath and I probably sound like a crazy person, but after a few moments of contemplation, Peeta’s face splits in a wide grin. 

“Okay,” he agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should take a moment here to mention that the title, More Than Words, is derived from the song of the same name by Extreme. This is not a songfic by any means, but I feel like the overall message of the song (that its important to show someone you love them rather than just saying the words) fits Katniss and Peeta perfectly. Neither of them ever says, “I love you” outright to the other in canon, but we still know they love each other through their actions, which is a hugely important quality in a relationship. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and as always, comments are love, so let me know what you thought of this chapter! 
> 
> Find/follow/message me on my tumblr: everlarkstoastbabies
> 
> Until next time! xoxo


	4. Part 3

 

Finally finding release after copious amounts of forced, pleasure less sex has it benefits, I think, as I practically fly back home later that day. It’s doing wonders for my mood. Even Mom notices my heightened spirits, warily observing the sudden change from my usual surly demeanor.  

“Since Gale is so busy in the mines now, I told him I’d go hunting with him tonight. We’ll probably be out late so you shouldn’t wait up for me,” I tell her.

Even I’m surprised at how easily the candid lie rolls off my tongue. Maybe it’s all the time I’ve been spending with Peeta and his talent had rubbed off on me. Maybe it’s the influence of the Capitol. Probably a bit of both.

My mother, for her part, purses her lips at this news. I’ve done it before, but hunting at night is still dangerous and ill advised. She doesn’t like the idea of me in the woods at night, especially now that our family’s wellbeing no longer depends on the game I bring back home. But unfortunately for my mother, along with her breakdown following the loss of my father came the loss of her parental authority over me. She knows better than to try and stop me. I can see this conclusion forming in her mind as she studies me carefully, her gaze unusually suspicious. Suddenly I’m not so sure whether my lie was as convincing as I initially thought it was.

“Well… if you must go, then make sure to be safe and don’t do anything foolish. _Please_ , Katniss,” she pleads with me.

“I won’t,” I promise.

I leave the house at dusk headed in the direction of the Seam where I would normally enter the woods, but double back around to the rear entrance of Peeta’s house instead. When I find him, he’s in the kitchen pulling a loaf of bread out of the oven. Nervous butterflies flutter furiously in my stomach when I remember what that bread is for.

Peeta smiles widely when he sees me standing in his doorway. “Hi,” he says. 

“Hi.” Heat floods my face and suddenly the tops of my scuffed boots become very interesting as I stare down at them, unable to look at Peeta.

“It’ll need to cool down a bit before we can toast it so I’ll just go take a quick shower, okay?” My eyes flick back to him and I take in his flushed cheeks, hair sticking up in all directions, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead. Obviously he’s been working hard in the kitchen all day, probably since I left this afternoon. I kind of like this disheveled look on him, but I agree all the same.

He bounds up the stairs, leaving me alone in the kitchen. The loaf of bread draws my gaze as it rests innocently on the cooling rack. Abruptly, I’m stricken with the realization that that bread means forever. I’m only 16 years old- am I really ready to give myself to Peeta for the rest of my life? 

My mother’s earlier words swim to the front of my mind. _Don’t do anything foolish._ True, she said it to me in a different context, but it applies here, too. Does marrying Peeta make me a fool? 

Then again, my situation is unique. I’m going to marry him whether I’m ready or not. President Snow has made certain of that. Doing it this way at least gives me the feeling that it’s a choice Peeta and I are making for us and no one else. And really, there isn’t anyone else I’d ever _want_ to marry.

Once upon a time, it might have been Gale that I married, simply because that is what everyone had expected of us. It would have been the natural progression of my life. We work well together as a team, but that ship (if there ever was one) has long since sailed. Our relationship has never been the same since the Games. Since _Peeta_ in all honesty. Gale and I are drifting further apart all the time. 

Ten minutes later, Peeta’s footsteps clomp down the stairs. His hair is tousled and still a bit damp, but he’s changed into clean kaki pants and a fresh button- down shirt for the occasion. I frown when I glance down at my own attire (the same pants and threadbare shirt I’d been wearing this morning) and wish I’d thought to change into something nicer.

Peeta correctly interprets the cause of my scowl, and tilts my chin up so that I’m looking him in the eyes. “You look beautiful.” He gives me a peck on the lips.

“Cinna left a bunch of things. I should go back and change-“ but Peeta cuts me off with another kiss, this one lingering much longer than the first.

“Oh, you’re not getting away from me that easily,” he teases. “I like you just like this. It’s you. Besides-” he leans in to nip at my ear- “this is the second time today that I’ll get to take that outfit off of you.”

The words come out in a low growl, sending pleasant shivers down my spine. This isn’t a side of Peeta that I’ve seen often before and I’m looking forward to uncovering more of it, hopefully tonight. At the very least, I’m grateful that I thought to brush my hair and put it into a fresh braid before I left home. 

“Should we take this upstairs? We can use the fireplace in my bedroom.”

Toastings are traditionallt held in the kitchen in front of a crowd of friends and family, but Peeta and I have had enough of audiences. This is one thing we will do for us and no one else.

At my nod of agreement, Peeta snatches the small loaf off the cooling rack and pulls me up the stairs behind him.  

When we enter the room, I find that he’s already spread a fleece blanket and a pile of fluffy pillows before the fireplace. A small pile of tinder and logs sit in the hearth, waiting to be lit. My skin pebbles with the cool breeze that trickles in through the open window, but Peeta has a fire roaring to life in the grate in no time. The heat and light flood through the room as the fire grows, encompassing us in its warmth and soothing crackles.

I settle myself next to him on the blanket, and when Peeta rips the loaf in two and hands me my half, I see that it is not the traditionally plain toasting bread. Rather, this loaf is filled with raisins and nuts. The very same bread he’d thrown to me in the rain in what feels like another lifetime. The familiar rush of warmth coursing through me has nothing to do with the fire as I meet Peeta’s smiling eyes, their blue depths dancing in the flickering light. 

We’re just extending our pieces toward the fire when something dawns on me. “You don’t really have to do this part, you know. You already did it,” I say.

Peeta chuckles. “I don’t think a couple loaves of soggy, burnt bread qualifies as an official toasting.” 

I shrug. “It qualifies for me. I don’t think you realize how much you gave me that day. I… I would have given up without you.” I’ve never admitted this out loud to anyone before. But it is the truth. I had been drowning, failing in my feeble attempts to keep Prim and my mother alive. Peeta was the one to rescue us all. With a single act of kindness, he had saved my entire family. He gave me hope, a will to live. I can never repay him for that. 

This realization and the pure _love_ in his eyes at my confession is enough to dissolve all of the fear and doubt that invaded my mind in the kitchen earlier. Haymitch is right. Madge is right. I can’t do better than Peeta.

The bread grows steadily darker in the heat of the fire, but neither of us moves to pull our half out just yet. We share a grin when we each realize what the other is doing, and not until the bread is slightly blackened on the outside do we withdraw it from the flames. 

Peeta holds his charred piece before me. “Katniss Everdeen, I love you. You’re stubborn and strong and beautiful and I’ve loved you since the moment I first heard you sing. Words can’t describe how grateful I am that we have each other now… that we survived _together_. For the rest of my life, I hope to be able to look beside me and have you there. I’ll protect you; I’ll be there for you, no matter what they throw at us. We’re in this together. Always.” 

I try to swallow the lump that rises to my throat at Peeta’s vows. I’ve been racking my brains all day with no clue what I’ll say to him, but now it comes to me. “Peeta, you gave me hope when no one else did. You _still_ give me hope. You’re the best person I’ve ever known and I don’t know where I would be without you in my life. We have each other. And that’s all I need forever.”

It doesn’t hold a candle to his impassioned speech, but his eyes shine at my words just the same. 

Though the bread may be scorched on the outside, it’s still the best thing I’ve ever tasted when Peeta holds it to my lips. The rich, nutty flavors burst in my mouth, reminding me of rain and full bellies and the promise of a brighter future. Not even the most decadent Capitol feast could compare to this. 

I waste no time crushing my lips to his as soon as we’ve swallowed our portions, and Peeta kisses me back just as enthusiastically, pulling with him into the cloud of pillows on the floor. 

He tastes of toothpaste and burned bread and the lingering sweetness that is inherently part of him. It’s a flavor I’ve come to love, even crave whenever I’m not with him. 

My nimble fingers don’t have their usual dexterity while Peeta is intoxicating me with his kisses and caresses, but I’m desperate for the comforting feel of his warm, broad chest, so I settle for ripping the shirt open. Tiny buttons skitter everywhere across the floor.

“Portia made that especially for me. Imagine the lecture you’ll get when she finds out what you did to it,” he teases me indignantly.  

“She’ll get over it,” I murmur, running my hands over the muscled planes of his bare abdomen. Peeta works his hands into my shirt, my nipples pebbling as his thumbs brush over my bra. He whips the shirt over my head and tosses it unceremoniously aside. He unfastens my bra easily- the result of so much practice in the Capitol- then shifts us so that he’s hovering over me. He takes my breast into his warm, wet mouth and I can’t hold back a moan of pleasure at the sensation. 

The memories of this morning- of that exquisite mouth in _other_ places- rush through me, increasing the unbearable need between my legs. 

“Peeta,” I whine as his lips move to lavish my other breast. 

“Hmmm?” he murmurs. The vibrations send pleasant tingles of heat racing through my body. 

“I need…” But I don’t know how to put it into words. It’s too embarrassing to articulate, so I grind my hips into his, hoping he’ll get the message. Instead Peeta stills my hips in his firm grasp and gives me a wicked grin. 

“What is it you need, Katniss?” he asks, false innocence coloring his tone. I can feel the blush steadily creeping up my face and neck. He is going to make me say it.

Evidently he notices my discomfort, because he instantly drops the teasing manner. “You can tell me, Katniss. You don’t ever need to be embarrassed or hold back with me.” His voice is so soothing, his eyes so sincere that I can’t help but be entranced by him. I trust him. 

“This morning,” I say. “With your mouth… will you?” My face is as hot as ever, but now that I know that kind of pleasure exists I’m eager to experience it again. Peeta lets out a low chuckle. 

“My pleasure,” he growls. With that, his hands drift to my waist, ever so slowly removing the rest of my clothes. Then he kisses his way down from my mouth to my breasts, stomach, legs… all the way to the arches of my feet before making his way back up to the apex of my thighs, which is practically pulsing with desire. 

He slides a thick finger between my folds. “God you’re so wet.” His voice is husky, full of lust. His breath fans over me gently, a mere taunting whisper of what is to come. 

“ _Please_ , Peeta…ah!” I groan when finally, _finally_ , he relents and runs the flat of his tongue over my needy flesh. He takes his time now, leisurely mapping me with his mouth. He savors and licks and suckles lightly on the cluster of nerves, giving just enough contact to frustrate me even more. Instinctively I thrust myself against his face in search of the friction I crave. One of his hands entwines with my own. The other slips a finger inside of me. 

The building pleasure is almost too much; there’s a coil of heat burning low in my abdomen, almost ready to snap. But Peeta continues his slow pace, occasionally applying a touch more pressure, sucking just a bit harder. I’m so worked up that by the time he adds a second finger inside of me and curls them forward, I lose it. The force of my orgasm rushes so fiercely through me that I arch off the blanket, a strangled cry ripping from my throat.

I lay on the floor in front of the fire, a trembling, sweaty mess. Peeta crawls up beside me to give me a tender kiss as I recover. 

“That was… wow,” I manage to say. “Where did you learn that?” 

I’m surprised the question did not occur to me this morning. Where _had_ Peeta learned to do that? The sudden image of him doing it to some random, faceless girl makes me sick to my stomach. 

“Katniss, I’ve got two older brothers,” he says, as though that explains everything. 

“So you’ve never done that with anyone else?” I can’t help flashing back to the conversation we’d had under the cover of moonlight before our very first session in the Capitol.

_“Have you ever…”_

_“Had sex? Twice.”_  

Peeta had admitted it matter- of- factly, almost callously to me at the time. I didn’t ask for details. No way in hell did I want to hear about his previous sexual exploits. He was free to do as he wished, but that was his business. Now, however, I find myself insanely curious about his experience, hoping that there is this one small part of him that is mine alone. As usual, he seems to guess what I’m thinking. 

“No, Katniss. No. Even when I was with the others… it was you. It’s _always_ been you.” His warm hand caresses my cheek as he seals his words with a searing kiss. 

“Good,” I murmur into his mouth. “Because you’re _mine_.” 

To demonstrate my point, I sit up to unbutton his pants. His erection springs forward and I take it carefully in my hand. It’s funny how the sight of something that had once seemed so intimidating- almost like it wasn’t even a part of kind, gentle Peeta himself- now sets my body thrumming with desire. 

I only hesitate for one nervous moment before wrapping my lips around his head for the first time. The taste is salty, earthy; a direct contrast to the ever- present sweetness of Peeta’s mouth. It’s awkward and strange having him in my mouth, and I find myself not knowing quite what to do with my teeth. And yet it is not unpleasant. 

He groans when I suck lightly at the tip, run my tongue along the thick vein on the underside of his shaft. 

“Katniss!” he gasps when I plunge down on him in one swift, bold move. Peeta is not small, but I take in as much as I can. It seems to be enough, judging by the way his fingers are knotted into my braid at the base of my skull. One of my hands wraps itself around the base of his erection while my free hand runs up his defined abdomen. I can feel the muscles there growing taught under my exploring fingers. His hips jerk slightly upwards. He seems to have lost all control over them. 

I like it. I _like_ that I have this total control over him right now when usually, it’s the other way around. For such a gentle person, Peeta is surprisingly dominant in bed. Whether that is because he has to be for the cameras or because of his wrestling background, I don’t know. All I know right now is that this moment is about _him_. This is the very first time I’m pleasuring him alone, the boy who has given me so much. _I_ am the one making him groan and twitch and grunt like that. 

It’s empowering. 

Then all of the sudden Peeta pulls away from me with a soft groan. Confused, I release him with a small ‘pop.’ 

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No! No, that’s definitely not it. It was… it was really good,” he pants.  “I just want this night to last a little longer. And for the record… no one has ever done _that_ for me before.” I can’t help but grin a little at that. He pulls me down for a kiss, murmuring against my lips,  “Should we move to the bed?” 

Our toasting fire still flickers in the grate, casting a warm glow throughout the room. I pull back the covers and climb into the pillow soft bed. Peeta is beside me in an instant, drawing me in close for a deep kiss. 

A low moan curls in the back of my throat. In the short time that it took to make it to the bed, I missed the contact with his body. The way his soft, warm lips caress mine. How his languid tongue draws me into him. How his warm weight pushes me deep into the mattress, every line of our bodies pressed together. With him, I lose myself in such a way that makes me forget about everything and everyone else in the world. I think I could spend forever just kissing Peeta and I would be happy. 

His knee shifts up to part my legs and he settles himself between my hips. I can feel the tip of him pressing against my entrance.

Taking full advantage of the fact that my hands are free and not bound to the bedpost, I brush Peeta’s hair out of his eyes and hold his face between my palms. We hold eye contact as he pushes himself forward, finally sinking into me; we moan in unison as he fills me to the hilt. I wrap my legs around his waist in an attempt to bring him even deeper. It’s still not close enough. 

For a moment we remain completely still, both reveling in the incredible feeling of connection. For the second time today, I marvel in the fact that this can feel so fulfilling, so inexplicably _right_ , in this moment. Such a contrast to our trysts in the Capitol.

And then Peeta starts to _move_ and I can’t keep the little gasps and squeaks from falling out of my mouth. They sound strange in my own ears and it makes me feel slightly self- conscious. I have to bite down on my lip to keep from screaming out in pleasure when his hand snakes between our bodies to find the bundle of nerves at my center once more. 

The thrusting combined with Peeta’s talented fingers on my clit brings me racing to the precipice in no time. I come with a loud cry, unable to hold it in any longer and no longer caring whether anyone hears me through the open bedroom window. Peeta grunts and quickens his pace, latching his mouth back onto mine. After a last few thrusts, I feel his release as he falls over the edge with me.

We lay catching our breath together, neither of us ready to let go of the other just yet. 

After a few minutes, however, I’m having difficulty breathing under Peeta’s weight that’s still pinning me to the bed. 

“Peeta?” I murmur. 

“Hmmm?” comes his sleepy response. 

“I can’t breath.” 

“Oh! Sorry!” He looks embarrassed and immediately shifts himself off of me, but I snuggle right up next to him, using his arm for a pillow. “That was just… I mean…” 

“I know,” I say. 

And we fall asleep just like that, boneless and sated in a tangle of sheets and sweaty limbs, the fire of our union flickering softly in the background.

 

*****

 

Nearly a week goes by until Sunday arrives, my allotted hunting day with Gale. As happy as I am to get back into the fresh air with my best friend, it is with difficulty that I force myself out of Peeta’s warm arms and soft bed even earlier than normal. Despite the fact that he no longer works in his family’s bakery, Peeta still wakes up at and insanely early hour to begin his baking every day. This routine, he tells me, is comfortable for him, and who am I to begrudge him the tiniest bit of normalcy where he can get it?

In any case, his early schedule works entirely in our favor. In the week since our toasting, he’s found increasingly creative ways of rousing me alongside him before I sneak back into my own house in the mornings. I think my body must have gotten used to waking up to his touches and explorations, because right now I’m craving Peeta more than anything. He looks so young and untroubled and innocent in sleep. I push back the hair from his forehead and press a soft kiss to his temple before reluctantly tip- toeing from the room. 

Half an hour later, I hike through the woods to find Gale waiting for me in our usual spot. He doesn’t look up or speak as I approach, even though I know he can hear me coming. As soon as I sit down beside him he pierces me with an iron glare. 

Without so much as a cursory _hello_ , Gale snaps, “So, is there something you need to tell me?” 

I recoil at his harsh tone, my heart immediately beginning to beat a violent tattoo against my rib cage. What does he mean? Did he find out about the toasting? No, that’s impossible. Peeta and I agreed to keep it secret from everyone, including our families. Not even Haymitch knows. I decide it’s best to play dumb. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say stonily back.

“I went to Madge’s yesterday.” Gale’s jaw is clenched and I can tell he’s struggling to remain calm. He mumbles through some explanation, but I don’t have time to process exactly what he was doing at Madge’s house if it wasn’t to trade, because his next words are enough to freeze me in my seat. “And then I saw this advertisement on her TV. _‘Don’t miss the romantic adventures of the star- crossed lovers from District 12, full and in the flesh,’_ ’’he says, mimicking the high- pitched Capitol accent. 

My stomach drops to my feet. My heart lodges itself in my throat. But… how could this have happened? Those videos weren’t supposed to make it to the districts! Snow told us they were intended only for the wealthiest in the Capitol, only for those who could afford to pay the steep viewing fee… and then I remember that the televisions in the Mayor’s mansion are different. Madge gets Capitol programming. Her family sees Capitol advertisements. _Oh_. 

“So it’s true, then?” Gale takes my stunned silence as an affirmation. My mouth is too dry to speak. He seethes beside me, awaiting an explanation. When I don’t offer one, his temper rises to the surface and bursts forth in a tide of obscenities and shouted insults. I let him rant while I fight with the tears coming to my eyes, dangerously close to spilling over. 

“…I just can’t believe you would do that! It’s _disgusting_ , Katniss. I don’t know why you even bother to come hunting at all anymore, if that’s how you’re making money these days! You’re no better than Cray, you know that? I know things are different because of the Games, but you let them turn you into this… this… Seam sl-” 

“Stop!” I’ve found my voice at last, grief and humiliation turned to cold anger at his accusations. The day I let Gale Hawthorne refer to _me_ as a _Seam slut_ is the day our friendship ends forever. “Stop it, Gale! Peeta and I didn’t have a choice! We _had_ to do it, you don’t understand!” 

“Did Mellark… did he _force_ you? I’ll kill him.” Gale’s face is a pale gray color, but his expression is still menacing as he cracks his knuckles. 

“No! Peeta didn’t force me. It’s not his fault! I tried to tell you, neither of us had a choice. Snow threatened Peeta’s family. He threatened Prim, my mother, _you_. He’d have you all killed if we didn’t do it!”

 Gale’s face falls into his hands as he absorbs this information. 

“We found out during the Victory Tour.” My voice shakes, but he remains quiet, letting me explain. “It’s… expected of certain victors after they win the Games. Finnick Odair- he doesn’t have lovers, Gale, he has clients. And Peeta… he is the best I could have ever hoped for under the circumstances.” 

I’m not sure why I have such strong urge to defend Peeta right now. Maybe because I have a feeling that Gale will find a way to place all the blame on him nonetheless. 

He is silent for a long time, pacing through the trees before he speaks again. “Let’s run away. Now. Today.” 

I almost want to laugh; it is such a huge impossibility now that I’m in so deep with Snow. Not to mention the toasting last week. But there is such an earnest sincerity in Gale’s face, so I hold back. “We can’t. It’s not an option,” I say flatly. 

“It is, though,” he argues. “We’ll talk our families into it. I know we can do it. We _have_ to.” His voice breaks. I think there might even be a tear or two glistening in his hard eyes. But I’m stubborn, too.

“And then what will become of Peeta? Haymitch? I’m not leaving them behind.” 

Gale balks. “Katniss, you’re _forced_ into being with _him_ , and Haymitch… the man helped lead you to slaughter! We can’t take everyone.” 

“Haymitch kept me alive! He got two tributes out of the arena for the first time in history! And just because Peeta and I were forced into doing… what we did, it doesn’t mean that I don’t… that I don’t _care_ about him.” I can feel the flush rising up my neck and face, the warm memories of our toasting night invading my mind. I more than _care_ for Peeta, but I can’t tell Gale about that. 

Gale, who stands before me incredulous and furious at my refusal. “Fine,” he snaps. “I’ll just go hunt then. Some of us still need to do actual work to feed our families.” 

With that he storms away, probably scaring off all the game within a half-mile radius and eliminating the possibility of shooting anything at all. I look on helplessly as my best friend leaves me behind. 

He does not look back.

 

*****

 

I take my time trudging back home. I feel deflated. The giddiness that filled me after my secret toasting with Peeta is completely gone thanks to my fight with Gale. Now all I can feel is guilt for refusing to go along with Gale’s plan to run away and anger at his reaction to it.  

“Hi, Katniss!” Prim greets me immediately upon my arrival in our kitchen. “You just missed an announcement that there’s mandatory viewing tonight. I think they’re going to show your wedding dresses!” 

Cinna fitted me with at least a dozen dresses during my last stay in the Capitol, evidently before he made the trip to twelve to fit Madge and Prim for their bridesmaid gowns. Now the entire country gets to vote on the winning dress. The only thing I can think is how this news will serve to make Gale even angrier, but I shove the guilt the back of my mind and put on a tight smile for my excitable little sister. 

A few hours later, I’m sitting in the living room with my family while Peeta waits in one of the bedrooms upstairs. Effie called earlier, adamant that he be exempt from mandatory viewing. Apparently in the Capitol, it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride in her gown before the wedding. Oh, if only she knew. Effie would probably go ballistic if she found out what Peeta and I have already done. The idea brings a tiny grin to my face. 

Prim “ooohhs” and “aaahhs” at the gowns as I model them on the screen while I try not to let the dread over this upcoming spectacle of a wedding overwhelm me. I wish Peeta were here to hold my hand. 

Finally, when all the gowns have been shown, Prim calls up the stairs, “Peeta! It’s safe, you can come down now!” His uneven gait and broad grin appear at the top of the staircase.

“That took forever,” he jokes, eyes twinkling.  “How many wedding dresses does a girl need?” I open my mouth to retort, but I’m cut off by yet another announcement from the television. 

The temperature of the room seems to drop at least ten degrees while we watch President Snow read the card proclaiming the third Quarter Quell. 

_The male and female tributes will be reaped from the existing pool of victors._  

I turn wide- eyed to see Peeta’s slack- jawed expression from across the room. Without uttering a word, he hastens from the room and exits through the front door. I know him well enough to know exactly where he’s going. To Haymitch’s. 

Ignoring Prim’s and my mother’s protests of dawning understanding, fear, and grief, I race out the door after Peeta, but when I reach Haymitch’s house, I find that I don’t want to face either of them right now. It would feel almost like intruding upon something that I am not a part of. I _have_ to go into the arena. But Peeta and Haymitch… they have a choice to make. I’m almost certain what Peeta wants to do and I’ll just have to convince Haymitch differently later. 

Instead I turn away from the house and run down to the very end of the Victor’s Village where I find myself crouched in the basement of one of the empty homes. Bringing my knees up to my chin and wrapping my arms tightly around my legs, I allow the fear and grief consume me at last.

 

*****

 

I awake in the early hours of the morning to Peeta’s bright blue eyes staring from the pillow next to me. It takes a few minutes to realize that he must have found me last night and carried me all the way back home to my bed, because the last thing I remember is the crushing depression overtaking me on the basement floor. 

He reaches for me as soon as he sees that I’m awake, drawing me into him and letting me cry myself out all over again. When I pull away at last, there’s a steely determination on Peeta’s face that I’ve only ever seen in the arena. He seems to think that we (and by this he actually means just me) have a good chance of surviving the Quell arena. 

Every day after this, Peeta enforces a strict training regimen on Haymitch and myself. He makes us run laps, lift weights, and we even practice throwing knives at the side of Haymitch’s house. I go along with it because it’s beneficial for Peeta too, and I’m adamant that he will win. I tell Haymitch as much and we strike up a fitful bargain, but I know that Peeta and Haymitch also struck a deal of some sort the night of the Quell announcement. We don’t talk about it, in any case. Still, I can’t help wondering which promise our mentor intends to keep. 

Every night after training, Peeta and I fall into bed together. I usually find myself far too exhausted to do anything more than strip off my outer clothes and climb under the covers in my underwear before my head hits the pillow and I’m out for the night. Once I even fall asleep right at the dinner table and Peeta has to carry me to bed again. 

My mother and Prim must notice at some point that Peeta has been sleeping over, but if so, neither of them acknowledges his presence in my room at night. 

As the weeks before the Quell tick away, I grow more weary and strained while my nightmares become increasingly vivid. No doubt my brain is conjuring up the horrifying images born from the increased stress brought on by the Quell. 

The reaping is fast approaching and I have still not made up with Gale. I have virtually no time to see him, what with my training schedule and his work in the mines. I know that he will have to come and see me, though, before I board the train for the Capitol. Then I’ll apologize. I’m going off to die and I don’t want to leave him with that last memory of our fight in the woods.

But I never get the chance. 

My name is called and Peeta immediately volunteers for Haymitch when our mentor’s name is fished from nearly empty reaping bowls. Then the three of us plus Effie are hustled onto the train without preamble. 

Peeta suggests that we write letters, but I know full well that I won’t be able to put the words on paper, any more that I could write down my toasting vows. I’m off to the Capitol to die once more, and I’ll never get to speak to my loved ones again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hugs and kisses go out to every last one of you for reading and commenting. Your praise, thoughts, and con-crit, etc. are always hugely appreciated. 
> 
> Until the next update! xoxo


	5. Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I had not planned on posting this week, but I’m so pumped by all the support I’ve received (seriously, you guys are awesome!) that I couldn’t wait any longer. 
> 
> I did include one tiny detail influenced by the CF movie in this chapter. Let me know if you spot it! (Hint: it involves Johanna) Without further ado, please enjoy!

 

I wake in Peeta’s arms on the train the next morning. He’s already up early like his baker’s hours usually demand, and his lips curl into a weak smile when he sees that I’m awake too. We’re just leaning in for a good morning kiss when my stomach gives a sudden, violent lurch.

Pulling away from him before his lips meet mine, I sprint into the bathroom, making it to the toilet just in time for last night’s lamb stew to make its reappearance in the porcelain bowl. Peeta, having rushed in behind me, now crouches next to me on the floor. He has my loose hair gathered in a ponytail at the nape of my neck, his hand rubbing soothing circles on my back as I retch. 

Afterwards I slump to the floor, my throat raw and sore from heaving. Peeta pushes a glass of water into my hand. 

“Try and keep some of it down. I’ll go tell Effie and Haymitch you’re not feeling well.” His heavy tread recedes down the hall. I stay where I am on the cool bathroom floor, taking the occasional sip of water. 

Peeta reenters the bathroom a few minutes later. “How about a shower?” he says casually. He turns on the taps, but neither of us moves to get in. 

One of the few useful things we’ve learned in the Capitol is that background noise can easily disrupt the audio files of the recording devices in a room, and there no doubt that this room is fully equipped with electronic bugs. The sound of the shower spray should prevent anyone from eavesdropping on us.

“Katniss, this is the third time this week,” Peeta says after a lengthy pause. He speaks softly, cautiously, as though to an animal that might be spooked if he raises his voice too much. He’s right, though. I’ve been feeling off for a while, but yesterday morning and two days prior, I’ve woken to the nauseous feeling roiling in my stomach. At the time I attributed it to the pressure of the Quell and Peeta’s demanding training regimen. 

“I’m going to ask you a question and I need you to answer it as best as you can, okay?” 

I nod stiffly. 

“What was the date of your last period?” His voice remains careful and steady, but I can see the desperate panic in his eyes. I balk and try to think back, but for the life of me I can’t remember the last time I had a period. My mind has been so preoccupied with everything else that there’s no room for such a thing in my head. Not to mention that with the extreme stress I’d experienced since the Games in combination with having been underfed for most of my life, I’ve never had a regular cycle anyway. 

“I don’t know,” I say finally, and tears prick at the corner of my eyes without warning. I’m putting it together, what Peeta is asking. If I’m honest with myself, I’ve known for weeks now. Somewhere deep in my subconscious I knew that the complete exhaustion I’ve been feeling every day is not simply the result of all the training. My body is trying to tell me something. I’ve just done my best to ignore it. 

Peeta’s brow is furrowed in concentration. “The last time we were in the Capitol,” he says eventually. “We had to push our last session back a week.” 

I flush at the recollection of the humiliating memory. Haymitch had grumbled about the injustice of “woman problems” forcing him to remain in the Capitol another week, seeing as Peeta and I couldn’t very well put on a lover’s performance for the cameras during that time. Peeta chastised Haymitch for his insensitivity and tended to me, taking care to ensure me that I have no control over my body’s natural cycle, and therefore I wasn’t to blame.

“Have you had one since then?” Peeta presses quietly. I shake my head. That was almost three months ago. I definitely have not had a period since then. I press the heels of my hands hard into my eyes, trying to stem the steady flow of tears. They only fall faster.

Peeta doesn’t need to say anything more. We both understand his implications. 

I am disgusted with myself for crying so easily like this. I am a hunter and I am strong and I am _not_ supposed to let my weaknesses show. But now it feels as though an alien force has taken over my body. It wrenches the wracking sobs from my chest and I can do nothing but let them come. Peeta pulls me off the hard floor and into his lap. His arms wrap around me in a secure vise and lets me weep freely into his shirt. 

When my sobs have receded to soft hiccups, Peeta turns off the shower, scoops me up, and carries me into the bedroom. Someone- an avox, probably- has left a cart of food.

“I ordered breakfast. Are you hungry?” 

I find to my surprise that I am ravenous. My earlier nausea seems to have vanished as suddenly as it appeared. Peeta hands me a loaded plate and I wolf down the meal in silence while he merely picks at his food. 

Then his voice breaks through the tense silence. “We should make certain once we get to the Capitol.” 

My steely gray eyes snap to his. I swallow a large bite of eggs. “I’m not letting Haymitch find out about this. Or anyone else. Ever.” I know I’m being stupid. It’s not like I can hide something like this forever. People will find out eventually, but I’m not ready for that yet. It’s too much. 

“Well I’ve been thinking that I can ask Portia to get a test kit for us. She’s a woman; it shouldn’t be too hard for her to get one… I promise she’ll be discreet.” His blue eyes plead with me and I know he’s right. I nod in reluctant agreement. “Until then, let’s stay positive. It might just be a false alarm.” The optimism in Peeta’s tone is contradicted by the worry in his eyes, but I appreciate the attempt at nonchalance all the same.

 

*****

 

By nature I am not the most talkative person in the world, but I’m still uncharacteristically quiet throughout my prep for the tribute parade that evening. Luckily Venia, Flavius, and Octavia are much too absorbed in themselves to notice anything strange on my part.

Cinna, however, eyes me curiously as he helps me into my jumpsuit. The zipper glides effortlessly as it cinches the fabric over my hips and stomach, but falters when it hits my breasts. Fortunately the material is relatively pliable and Cinna manages to drag the zipper up the rest of the way. Although when I catch a glance at myself in the mirror, I can tell that the fabric of the jumpsuit is stretched more tightly than usual across my chest. I don’t meet Cinna’s eyes as he mutters something about taking new measurements so that he can alter my interview dress as well.

It’s easy once in the chariot to maintain the stoic, uncaring attitude I’ve retained throughout the day. I stare straight ahead, oblivious to the crowd and their cheers and keeping Peeta’s hand in a vice- like hold for the duration of the trip.

My flat, emotionless exterior cracks, however, the instant Johanna Mason steps into our elevator and has the nerve to ask _my husband_ (or fiancé, for all she knows) to unzip her costume. The seconds drag by as Peeta obliges, pulling the zipper from the back of her neck all the way down the curve of her spine. I wish we were in the arena already so I could rip her throat out. I try to be above it all and stare straight ahead again, but it’s difficult because her round, perky breasts still bounce in my periphery. They are impossible to ignore. The smirk on Peeta’s face only irritates me further.

Finally, my mood- already at the breaking point- is not improved by Peeta’s accusation after Johanna has exited the elevator.

“It’s you, Katniss. She’s just teasing you because you’re so, you know… pure.”

“Pure! How can you call me pure after… after _everything_ this year?” I sputter in disbelief. Peeta’s smile vanishes as he tries to backtrack.

“Katniss, I didn’t mean it as an insult! It’s just who you are… you have this inherent _innocence_ despite everything that’s happened. Really, it’s not a bad thing at all. It’s a very endearing quality, actually.” His eyes are twinkling and honest, but I’m too angry to immediately forgive him. Too sick and tired of everyone making fun of me, and now even Peeta is in on it. On top of it all, the nausea is back. I rip my hand from his and draw my arms firmly across my chest.

The second the elevator doors open at the 12th floor, I storm to my room and slam the door shut behind me. I stand in the doorway, seething.

After an entire day of feigned indifference, my temper finally rises to the surface. The vase that occupied my bedside table shatters into a million tiny pieces and makes a very satisfying crash when I chuck it at the wall. No one comes in inspect the source of the noise. 

The sudden flare of rage slowly ebbs away, leaving me drained and exhausted again. I sink onto my bed and begin to cry in earnest. God, I can’t stand all the crying. Such flippant emotional displays are so unlike me.  

When the tears subside I head into the bathroom, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My mascara trails in muddy rivers down my cheeks. The rest of the dark makeup my prep team had so carefully applied is smeared and smudged all over my face. I look ridiculous. The sight might even be funny if I were in brighter spirits. 

Tearing my eyes away from my disheveled face, I strip my clothes and scrutinize the rest of my body in the full- length mirror. While undernourished for much of my life, I’ve gained some weight lately. My hips and thighs have filled out, the bones there no longer prominent. My stomach is still as flat as could be, but not in that hollow, hungry way. Now it’s taught and firm, much more like a woman’s than the starving girl I used to be. 

The weight could easily be attributed to all the rich food I’ve eaten this past year as well as the muscle I’ve put on thanks to Peeta’s rigorous training schedule. Still, the thought nags at the back of my mind that it is not all down to food and exercise. 

My breasts have always been small, but they are certainly bigger now, there’s no denying it. They hang tender and weighty on my chest as I register the additional strain they’re putting on my upper back. It’s a wonder that I didn’t notice it before. Still, they’re not as large as Johanna’s. An errant though makes me wonder whether Peeta prefers her voluptuous figure to my own, if he would like the changes in my body now. Then I remember that I’m mad at Peeta, so I don’t care. Let him gawk at all the naked girls he wants. 

My hand settles on my stomach next, and I imagine it swelling before my very eyes. I see my body round and glowing with Peeta’s child for a split second before the reality of the situation hits me. I shake my head fiercely of the thought and step into the shower. I can’t afford to think like that. My death is imminent, and despite the fact that I am currently angry with Peeta, my wish to ensure that he leave the arena unscathed has not changed. 

By now I’ve learned to work the most basic functions of the Capitol showers, so I avoid any unknown buttons that might douse me in rose- scented foam. Roses trigger my gag reflex at the best of times and I have no desire to find out how they affect me now that I’m more sensitive to certain odors. Instead I stand in the spray, letting the hot water beat down on my exhausted body, soothing the taught, aching muscles of my shoulders and back. I hadn’t even noticed all the tension in my body until it is rinsed away along with the remnants of my day. I remain in the shower as long as possible, only getting out when my fingers and toes are hopelessly pruned. 

Wrapping myself in a fluffy robe, I enter my bedroom to find Peeta waiting for me on the bed. “Katniss,” he begins without hesitation. “Look, I’m sorry about how I handled that earlier. Johanna’s just messing with you. She’s trying to get into your head, and I know it’s not easy because you’re under a lot of stress. We both are. I just don’t want us to be fighting.”

His face is so earnest and apologetic that any remnants of my anger dissolve on the spot, just like the tension in my muscles during the shower. 

“I know. I’m sorry, too. I overacted.” I don’t have Peeta’s gift for words, but he forgives me nonetheless, extending his arms to me. I fall willingly into them. 

It’s like being home, safe in his embrace. I haven’t really seen much of him since our revelation on the train this morning, having been occupied with the preps and Cinna and the parade and my nerves all day. Then what little time I did spend with him I’d wasted by being stubborn and petulant. Now in Peeta’s arms I realize just how much I missed him.

“Please never undress another woman again,” I mutter into his ear. 

A quiet laugh vibrates through his chest. “I don’t think that will be a problem. You’re the only woman I’ll undress from now on. Promise.” I cling to him for a few more minutes before he speaks again.  

“I brought something with me,” he says, pulling a small package from behind his back. “Portia promised she wouldn’t say anything to anyone.”

My hand trembles as I reach for the box.

“Do you want some privacy?” he asks tentatively. I consider this for a moment. Maybe I should not allow him to come with me. A positive test, after all, will only make it more difficult to convince him to win the Games. But it’s not like I could hide it from him at this point, anyway.  Besides, I need him with me. We are partners, after all.

I grab his hand and drag him into the bathroom behind me.

 

*****

 

Peeta and I sit nestled side- by- side against the tub on the unyielding bathroom floor. The test waits on the counter across the bathroom.

“The package says to give it three minutes,” he says, referencing the box clutched in his fist. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Peeta’s hands, strong but gentle, move to my shoulders and begin to knead the newly tense muscles as expertly as he molds the loves of bread he makes every day. 

“Distract me,” I beg, wanting to think of anything but the mounting anxiety in my chest. “Tell me a story.” Peeta is silent for a moment, thinking. 

“Did you know that by the time I was six years old, I’d already decided that we would get married?” I shake my head. I hadn’t known that, although I probably could have guessed as much from Peeta. “Well I knew,” he says, continuing to massage the knots in my shoulders. “I had our whole life together all mapped out, too. It was a little different than how it really ended up being, as you can imagine.” 

I can practically hear the smile in his voice. The corners of my mouth twitch, fighting my own smile. “And how did you imagine it would be?” 

“Well, for starters, you were going to live above the bakery with my family and me. I shared a room with my brothers, but they would finally be forced to give us the bunk bed and they would have to share the rollaway. I’d have taken the bottom bunk and you’d have gotten the top, because that’s the best, of course.” 

I roll my eyes at his childish fantasy, but I can’t keep the wide grin from creeping up onto my face. 

“I made the mistake of telling my brothers about it once and they laughed at me. They teased me about it for _years_. They told me that I’d want to sleep in a bed _with_ you one day, but I didn’t believe them.” 

“Yeah, well look where that lead,” I say drily, gesturing to my stomach and shooting him a pointed look.

“Yeah. Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” he gives a half- hearted chuckle, but suddenly his expression becomes deadly serious. “But I’m not sorry, you know. No matter what happens… I’m glad I had the opportunity to share your bed, Katniss. I‘m happy that we were together for at least a little while before-“

“Stop,” I cut him off. “Don’t talk like that right now. I can’t handle it, okay?” He looks as though he might keep talking anyway, so I pull his mouth down to mine and kiss him breathless. Before long his tongue slides past my lips and I give a moan of delight. The abrupt, overwhelming desire for him rushes through my entire being. We haven’t been intimate with each other for almost a week, and after going so long without him, I _need_ him. My hands creep beneath the hem of his shirt, but Peeta pulls away before I can take it any further. 

“I think it’s been three minutes,” he breathes against my lips. “Should I go get it or would you like to do the honors?”

I’m so wrapped up in him that I nearly forgot about the pregnancy test still looming overhead. Shaking my head, I say, “You go.” I don’t think my quaking legs would support me if I tried to stand at the moment. 

So it’s Peeta who rises on unsteady feet and walks tentatively toward the sink. He picks up the plastic stick and meets my trembling gaze. He doesn’t say a word, but his wide eyes give me my answer.

It’s positive. 

Neither of us spare any more tears over the confirmation of what we’d essentially known already. Instead I grasp Peeta’s hand, and still wrapped in just my robe, I climb into bed. He follows, enveloping me in his arms and crushing me to his chest. We speak no more, both of us lying awake well into the early hours of dawn until it is officially time for us to begin our day.

The now- familiar nausea sweeps over me again that morning, but having eaten very little yesterday and skipping dinner altogether last night, I’m able to withhold from vomiting. I am hungry however, once my stomach settles. Ignoring the curious stares of Effie and Haymitch, not to mention the knowing looks of Cinna and Portia, I eat a large breakfast.

When we enter the gym for training, I head immediately for the hand-to- hand combat station. It’s something I’ve been working on with Peeta over the last few weeks and I’m eager to practice with someone new, and preferably someone who won’t go easy on me (as I suspect Peeta usually does). But Peeta himself grabs my arm and pulls me back before I can reach the station.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he hisses, and not very discreetly at that. I can see Finnick Odair eyeing us curiously from where he stands at the knot- tying station. 

“Um, training? I’ve got to practice, Peeta,” I say, glancing around to ensure that none of the other victors have noticed our disagreement. Finnick appears to be the only one who spotted anything out of the ordinary. Everyone else looks preoccupied. Most of all Johanna, who, having beat me to the combat station when Peeta interfered, is now oiling up her naked breasts for wrestling to the great amusement of those around her. This time, however, Peeta has eyes only for me.

“You can’t do the combat station. Not in your condition,” he whispers, glancing nervously toward my stomach. 

“Peeta, I feel _fine_. Really. You have to let me do this.” It’s the truth. Aside from the frequent bouts of nausea I’m really feeling okay, but it doesn’t convince him. 

“ _Please_ , Katniss,” he begs. I stare at him, incredulous. What does he think is going to happen once we get into the arena? That he can protect me by making sure I don’t overexert myself now when I’m in no real danger? That everyone will go easy on me because I’m pregnant? Fat chance. If anything, I’ll have an even bigger target on my back if anyone does find out. In my opinion it’s best to go on as though nothing is wrong, but Peeta has other ideas.

He hovers over me all morning after that. His whispered concerns that _climbing that structure is too risky_ and _lifting those weights will put too much strain on me_ and _why don’t I go over and tie some knots instead_ , drive me to the brink of near insanity. If it weren’t for the fact that our strategy is to appear an amiable team, I might have burst out screaming a Peeta on more than one occasion.

As it is, Haymitch’s instruction to make friends is not faring well for me in my current state of mind, either. I sulk silently at the end of the victor’s table during lunch, but apparently I’ve already got a target on my back. 

“Couple’s quarrel?” Finnick questions, an amused twinkle in his eye as he gestures between Peeta and me with his fork. “Star- crossed lovers not so _star- crossed_ these days?” 

“Aww, Finn, she’s just in a bad mood because she didn’t get any sleep last night, did you, Katniss?” Johanna says. I’m about to snap back that I have no idea what she’s talking about when she continues, “Not with this one exhausting her in bed every night. Bet you’d be good for a roll in the hay, wouldn’t you, Blondie?” She gives Peeta a suggestive wink. 

Ignoring Finnick’s snickers and Johanna’s continuous stream of brazen comments for the rest of lunch is no easy feat. By the end of the meal, the District 7 victor has successfully would me so tight with her lewd suggestions about what Peeta and I do when we’re alone together that I’m almost ready to snap. 

So I vent my violent thoughts towards Johanna (and a little towards Peeta, too) at the archery station. 

Picking up a bow for the first time in weeks, even though it is not my father’s lovingly crafted weapon, has a wonderfully soothing effect on me. It feels _right_. The bow is an extension of my very arm. The arrows fly from it with ease, piercing the heart of every dummy in the training center, and subsequently into each clay pigeon the instructor throws at me. 

After that particular display, the looks of disbelief and amazement on the face of each and every victor tells me that acquiring allies will no longer be an issue. I breathe a sigh of relief, grateful that at least one thing went right today.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favorite “what if” scenarios to explore, so I’m really excited to show you how this is going to play out in my version.
> 
> On a side note, it drives me crazy to no end that we don’t really have a solid timeline for the events of THG series, but alas, I’m leaving my timeline intentionally vague in deference to the books. Just know that I do have one in mind while writing this. (Katniss is about 7-8 weeks along)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and I’m positively dying to know what you thought of this chapter, so please leave a comment on your way out! 
> 
> xoxo


	6. Part 5

 

At the end of our long, trying week, Haymitch and Effie’s note that Peeta and I are free for the day is the most welcome thing that has happened to us all week. 

It’s the best day either of us has had in a very long time, picnicking on the rooftop of the training center. Possibly it’s even the best day we’ve ever spent together. Even I feel better today than have in weeks, like I’m getting a temporary reprieve from the pregnancy symptoms I’ve been experiencing. Today we’re relaxed and carefree and _normal_. Something we never had the opportunity to be back home. Maybe this is what our life might have turned into if there were no Games involved. 

As the sun sinks ever lower into the sky, I lay with my head in Peeta’s lap. His fingers comb through my loose hair and it’s so rhythmic, so soothing, that I begin to doze. 

And I dream. 

_I’m back at my old house in the Seam and there’s a screaming baby in my arms. Instinct tells me that the baby is mine, but no matter what I do- rocking, singing, cuddling- the child will not be soothed. In a desperate panic, I call out for my mother. She’ll be able to help. She’s good at this sort of thing. Maybe she can stop the infant’s shrill cries._

_She does not come. In fact, there’s no one to be found. I’m all alone with this baby._

_A bed I hadn’t noticed before sits in the corner. I rush to it with the screaming infant still in my arms. I yank back the covers, intending to force my mother out of bed to help me with the inconsolable child. But the pair of gaunt, lifeless eyes that stare back at me from the pillow are not the cornflower blue belonging to my mother. They are gray, Seam eyes. And they belong to me._

I wake with a start, my heart pounding violently against my rib cage. Peeta’s stretched out on his back with me draped over him, a look of deep concern etched across his features.

“Katniss? Are you okay?” His eyes search my face for the source of my distress, but I just shake my head to clear it of the disturbing dream and try to get my trembling body under control. 

“Just a nightmare. I wasn’t screaming out loud?” 

“Not this time. You were completely still. I was going to wake you up in a few minutes, actually. The sun’s about to set and I thought you might like to watch it with me.” 

We’re quiet as the color of the sky fades from Peeta’s favorite deep orange to a dusky purple. He knows that sometimes silence helps more than talking when it comes to my bad dreams, but the nightmare weighs heavily on my mind as I sit curled up in his lap. It’s not until the sky has deepened to an inky blue and sprinkled with stars that I break the content silence between us. “Peeta? Why is your mother… the way she is?” I turn to look at him in time to see the surprise register on his face at my seemingly random question. “Sorry, was that too personal?” 

Peeta’s face relaxes a bit and he gives a soft chuckle. “Katniss, you’re pregnant with my child. We’re also sort of married,” he reminds me. “It’s not too personal. It’s just… I’ve never talked about it with anyone before.” 

His eyes speak of an entire world of pain locked away inside him, one that I’m not privy to. I don’t really know the extent of his mother’s abuse, but I’m guessing by the look on his face that it gets worse than the incident I witnessed that day in the rain all those years ago. I saw the bruises on his face at school sometimes, and up until then I’d always assumed they were injuries gained from wrestling or fooling around with his brothers. But now I know the truth. I just can’t imagine what would possess a mother to harm her child so, especially one as gentle and kind- hearted as Peeta. 

“You don’t have to talk about it,” I say quickly, instantly regretting asking the question that’s clearly dredging up bad memories for him on our otherwise perfect day together. 

“No, no, it’s okay. I want us to be able to talk to each other about anything.” Then after a contemplative pause, he says, “Well, um, I’m not sure _exactly_ why my mom ended up the way she did, but I can give you my suspicions. I know that she’s generally unhappy with the way her life turned out. She wanted bigger and better things for herself, I guess. Marrying a baker doesn’t exactly put you at the top of the social ladder, you see.” He gives a self- deprecating smile and nudges my side playfully. 

“Ah, ah, ah- you’re a victor,” I correct him, poking him in the chest. 

“Anyway, my mom had a special kind of hatred for me. I was her last chance for the girl she always wanted, so I failed her before I was even born just by being a man.” 

“That’s no reason for her to hit you!” I interrupt indignantly.

“It’s not,” he agrees. “It took me a long time to come to terms with that. It wasn’t until… well it wasn’t until I burned the bread for you that I saw her for what she is. A bitter, angry woman. That’s not my fault and there’s nothing I can do to change it. But I realized that day that there are more important things in life. Things worth living for… things worth suffering for.” 

His eyes hold mine and I know what he’s implying. What he intends to do when we’re forced into the arena in just two day’s time. 

“Your dad didn’t do anything about it?” I prompt, partly because I’m curious and partly because I don’t want to think about the arena right now. 

“He tried, but honestly I think he was more a part of the problem. One of the reasons my mother’s so bitter is the fact that she was my dad’s second choice.” He raises his eyebrows and throws me a pointed look. “My parents never discussed this with me, but I suppose that my dad still wasn’t over your mom when they got together. But then my mom ended up pregnant, and so they got married. He chose her in the end, but I don’t think she ever got over the fact that there was someone else first.” 

“That’s a sad story,” I say. 

“Still a better love story than ours, right? We were doomed from the start. At least my parents had potential- an opportunity to make it work. We were never destined for a happy ending.” Peeta grimaces at his own words. 

“I’m happy now,” I whisper. And it’s true. There is nowhere else I’d rather be. Except for maybe our bed back home. 

Peeta grins sadly and then our mouths meet in a soft caress. The desire that I’ve been suppressing all week begins to build again as our lips move together, but then a chilly breeze ruffles through the night and I give an involuntary shiver.

“I think it’s time we headed back inside,” Peeta says. 

 

*****

 

Back in my room, we crawl under the blankets together. Automatically I settle into my favorite spot in Peeta’s chest. I’m perfectly content to lay here and breathe in his scent all night long, because despite my exhaustion, I know there will be little rest for either of us tonight.

“Peeta, I want you to know that you’re not my second choice.” It’s something that’s been nagging at me since the roof when he told me about his own parents. His face is doubtful. “I mean it. I think… well, I think this would have happened anyway. You and me. Even without everything that’s happened. Being with you feels _right_.” 

“Katniss,” Peeta begins, but I press a finger to his lips. I have to get this out while I can.

“You didn’t fail me, you know. I know that sometimes you think you did, but you’re wrong.”

“I did, though,” Peeta whispers. “I _let_ Snow manipulate you. I didn’t keep it from happening. I feel like I _raped_ you, Katniss. Over and over again, and now on top of that we’re back in the Games and you’re…” He can’t finish the sentence. Tears well up in his eyes.

Suddenly it strikes me that Peeta has not cried, not once, in front of me throughout this whole ordeal. Not after our sessions in the Capitol, not after the Quell was announced, and not even once in the past week has he shed a single tear. I’m the one who’s done plenty crying for both of us. My boy with the bread has been strong for me and now I’ll do the same for him.

“Peeta, look at me.” I rise to my knees, straddling his lap as he sits up in the bed. Then take his face between my hands. “Look at me. There is nothing you could have done to prevent what happened. _Nothing_. Do you hear me? _None of this is your fault._ Snow is a sick bastard and he threatened both our families. We did what we had to do.” 

He nods sadly and I swoop down to place a soft, sweet kiss upon his lips. 

I like to think that I’ve _shown_ Peeta how much I care about him because that’s just how I operate. Actions, not words. Between the two of us, Peeta is the wordsmith, able to spin a simple schoolboy crush into the whole tragic star-crossed lover’s yarn. Yet somewhere along the way it stopped being a facade and turned into something else entirely. Something I haven’t even let myself consider until this moment. I love Peeta. That is a certain, undeniable truth. On the roof just now he opened himself up to me, and he deserves the same from me. He deserves to hear me say it at least once.  

I pull away from his lips to say breathlessly, “I love you, Peeta.” 

His bottomless cerulean eyes are shining. For all the joy contained in his boyish smile, you’d think he was six years old again, fantasizing about sharing a bunk bed with the sullen, dark- haired little girl he so admired. Guilt sweeps through me when I realize I should have told him that sooner. A lot sooner, in fact. Deep down inside, I must have known it for a long time, but I hadn’t even said those precious words at our toasting in all my fumbling nervousness that night. 

“I love you, too,” he whispers.

That’s all it takes. I crush my lips to his again, wanting desperately to convey _exactly_ how much I love him. How much I admire him, how much I _crave_ him. I suck his ample bottom lip into my mouth, grinding my hips into his, glad that we’re already in the perfect position for this. 

The bulge in his pajama bottoms tells me that he’s already half- hard, almost ready for me. I’ve been ready all week. His hands are under my top in an instant, pushing it up to reveal my breasts. I moan and wince simultaneously when he palms the swollen, tender flesh. He jerks his hand away as though it’s been burned. “Did I hurt you?” I shake my head furiously, bringing my mouth back to his. 

“No,” I pant between breathless kisses. “Just a… side… effect.” Peeta grins into my mouth. 

“I did notice they were… bigger.” His eyes twinkle with devilish delight and I can’t help but let out a laugh. I stop abruptly, however, when Peeta latches his lips around one nipple, laving it with his velvety tongue, yet being extremely careful not to treat me too roughly. Grinding against him again, I can feel him thickening beneath me, growing harder still. 

I wrench my shirt the rest of the way over my head as Peeta switches his attentions to my other breast. I shift myself so that I can remove my own pants, and then his. He’s already shirtless. He’s taken to sleeping that way ever since I admitted to him- a dark pink blush staining my cheeks- that I prefer to snuggle into his warm, bare chest at night. 

His cock strains upward, begging for my touch. I let my fingers trace over the head, teasing lightly before I take him fully in my hand. Peeta’s mouth breaks away from my breasts with a strangled gasp at the unexpected contact. I take the opportunity to press our naked chests together, stroking his tongue with mine as I pump my hand up and down his shaft. 

His practiced fingers find their way to my soaked folds where he circles them slowly at first, then faster, hitting just the right spot that sends mewling whimpers spewing from my mouth. 

Maybe it’s the heightened emotions, maybe it’s the fact that we haven’t done this for a whole week, or maybe it’s the knowledge that I’m in love with Peeta, but I feel myself racing to the precipice more quickly than usual under his ministrations. But I tonight I want to feel him inside me when I come. I want to be connected to him, I want us to share that moment of greatest intimacy.

So I push his hand aside, align the head of his cock with my entrance, and sink onto him without preamble, swallowing his subsequent groan at the sensation. I roll my hips slowly, savoring the fullness of his thick cock inside of me. Peeta gives a smooth upward thrust, burying himself to the hilt. A moan escapes my lips, my head slumping forward onto his shoulder. His fingers thread in my hair as I roll my hips again and again, and my knees are aching from kneeling for so long, but I don’t care.

Peeta, always so attuned to my every need, senses this and flips us so that he lays over me. We’re closer than any two people could possibly be, my naked skin pressed into every line of his, and still he’s careful to keep the majority of his weight off my tender chest. 

Stifled squeaks of pleasure emanate from my mouth at the change in angle as he thrusts languidly in and out. His throaty grunts rent the heavy, still air of our bedroom. Nothing exists outside of this place. We star- crossed lovers are wrapped in our own little world. Nothing matters except the fact that I am absolutely, inexorably in love with the boy inside me now.

And I don’t love him because the Capitol wishes it so, or because I am forced to love him. 

I love him because in this moment his hair is tousled and his cheeks are ruddy but he’s beautiful anyway. I love him because he looks at me with such reverence that I feel magnificent and special and safe here in his arms, like nothing bad could ever happen as long as he is with me. I love him because he is the father of my child and because he loves me back just as much. Probably even more. 

I want Peeta to know- I owe it to him, really, for all the times I haven’t said it- just how much I love him. So I tell him.

“I love you,” I whisper into his ear, my teeth lightly scraping his earlobe. “Always, Peeta.” Then I kiss him, full and deep and passionate.

We lock eyes. “When I do that, it means I love you,” I say. “And when I do this-“ I lace our left hands together, where there would be rings in an official marriage, “it means I love you. And when I do this-“ I thrust my hips sharply up into his. We gasp collectively at the sensation. 

“It means I love you,” Peeta finishes for me.

 

*****

 

Afterwards I lay tucked into Peeta’s side, sleepy and sweaty and sated. I’m just on the verge of drifting into unconsciousness when he speaks into the darkness. 

“Where did that question earlier come from? About my mother, I mean.” He murmurs the question into my hair, which is loose around my shoulders. Suddenly I don’t feel so sleepy anymore. I can’t give him any answer but the truth. 

“Um, I was just thinking about things… about mothers. After my dad died, my mom was there, but… she wasn’t. And, well, I know how she ended up the way she did and I just wondered about yours…” I trail off, omitting the dream in which I became my own mother. Reduced to a shell of a human being. Wasting away in bed and neglecting her children. 

Peeta’s body tenses around me.  “You won’t be like that,” he promises. “You won’t end up like either one of them. You’re the strongest person I know, Katniss. I mean it. You’re going to get through this.” 

“Peeta, if one of us is going to be a parent, it should be you. You’ll be such a great father.” Because he will be a father one day, I’m certain of that. He’ll win the Quell and he’ll move on and have beautiful blonde babies with someone else. Someone more worthy of his love and the life he craves. But Peeta just shakes his head. 

“You still don’t get it, do you?” This puzzles me, but Peeta continues. “I don’t want just any child. I want your child. I want _our_ child. Why can’t you see that? Why don’t you understand that my life is more than payment enough for two? It’s not just about saving you, anymore, Katniss. It’s about saving _both_ of you.” His hand finds my bare stomach. Warmth radiates from its resting place there. It spreads through my entire being, down to the very tips of my fingers and toes. “You’re going to be a great mother,” he says, voice full of remorse. 

I say nothing more. It is abundantly clear that Peeta and I will never agree on this and the last thing I want is for us to spend our last couple of nights together arguing over the subject. What is to come in the arena will come, and we’ll just have to meet it when it does.

Just before we fall into an uneasy sleep, I mutter, “We can’t tell anyone about this. No else one can know.” 

So Peeta tells all of Panem instead. 

For the second year in a row, the boy with the golden tongue drops a bombshell that sparks chaos, even rage, among the people of the Capitol, and I suspect in the Districts as well. After seeing the reaction of the crowd, I can’t fault him for it. It’s like someone has finally shown them the light. The people understand, if only for a few moments, how truly despicable the Games really are. 

I’m full of nothing but admiration for that boy- my _husband_ , no less- even if I am a bit miffed that in revealing my pregnancy, Peeta has made it more difficult for me to sacrifice myself in the arena for him. Of course, that is one of his primary goals in revealing our secret. Still, I can’t find it in me to be angry with him anymore. 

Haymitch, however, is not so pleased. The second we step off the elevator on the top floor, he’s there, grabbing Peeta roughly by the scruff of his neck and shoving him against the nearest wall.

“Stop it!” I shriek. “Get off him!” Haymitch completely ignores me.

“Is it true?” he growls. Peeta nods fervently, eyes wide, clearly too shocked to articulate a response. I grab for Haymitch’s arms in an attempt to free Peeta, but Haymitch shoves him away and buries his face in his hands. 

“ _Fuck_. God dammit, you two couldn’t keep it in your pants?” he spits, disgusted. 

“W-we,” Peeta stammers. For once he’s at a loss for words. I don’t blame him. Haymitch’s violent reaction is completely unprecedented. 

“They gave me a shot in the Capitol,” I fill in. “We though it was still good…” But I quail under the look Haymitch is giving me.

“It’s a _monthly_ shot, sweetheart. You need to get it _every month_. Or were you not listening when they told you that? You haven’t been to the Capitol in almost three months.” The look on his face is so patronizing that it causes my anger to bubble to the surface again. 

“Well excuse me for not paying attention to the particulars,” I snap. “I was a bit preoccupied with the fact that I had to _fuck_ Peeta for the enjoyment of the entire country!” I stand before my mentor seething, my hands balled into fists at my sides. Haymitch stares at us- his tributes, his victors, his _kids_ \- wide eyed for a moment before dropping his face into his hands again.

“You have no idea what you’ve done,” he groans.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Peeta asks, finding his voice at last.

“Nothing,” Haymitch replies shortly. “Both of you just get out of my sight.”

“Gladly,” I retort, seizing Peeta’s hand and stomping toward our bedroom. 

“Katniss,” Haymitch says abruptly from behind us. I spin on my heel to face him again. 

“What?” 

He doesn’t say anything for almost a full minute. He seems to be forcing himself to swallow his anger to offer one last piece of advice. “When you’re in the arena… you just remember who the enemy is,” he says finally. I eye him curiously before throwing him a curt nod and pulling Peeta back to our room.

“Why is he so angry?” I ask when we’ve shut the door behind us. “I mean I never expected him to congratulate us, or anything, but still…” 

“Well, we’ve just made his job a lot more difficult,” Peeta says. 

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it, Katniss. The Capitol is finally grasping the injustice of this. All those people out there… they’re rioting in the streets because of us. On top of that we’re already targets for the other tributes _and_ Snow wants both of us dead. Now Haymitch has another life to protect. We’re putting a lot on him.” 

Does Haymitch think this changes things, then? That my unborn child is his responsibility now? Blind panic fills me as I realize that might just be true. I wish I could go and tell him that our bargain has not changed. He is still to get Peeta out of the arena, whatever the cost. Certainly if I try to leave the room now, though, the door will lock behind me and I’ll have to spend the night without Peeta. 

At this point the best I can do is hope that my mentor honors our deal. 

“How about a shower?” Peeta says, wrapping his arms around me from behind. It’s an obvious attempt at distraction, but I really do need to wash all this makeup off my face.

Peeta steps into the hot spray behind me and together, we scrub the essence of styling products and glitter from each other’s bodies. 

When Peeta kneels on the shower floor to remove his prosthetic leg, he stays where he is at my feet, placing a trail of wet kisses up my calves, my kneecaps, my thighs, all the way to the small thatch of curls between my legs. My knees almost buckle when he runs his tongue along my flesh, slick from the shower and my own arousal, but he wraps his strong hands around my hips and presses me back into the shower wall. It has the double effect of steadying me and increasing my arousal as he holds me firmly to the smooth tile.

He’s well practiced by now, but I still haven’t gotten used to the incredible feeling when Peeta savors me this way. I doubt I ever will. The way his tongue circles my clit, giving just the right amount of pressure and suction to set my body alight with need. The way he moans into my skin, sending delicious vibrations to my very core. The way his fingers dig into my hips and the feeling of his wet hair clenched in my hands. 

Before long, stars burst behind my closed eyelids and I’m screaming my pleasure into the steaming air, convulsing around his lips and tongue. 

Quick as a flash while I recover, Peeta washes the stump of his leg where it attaches to the prosthetic, then affixes the appendage back below his knee. His cock is fully erect, standing flush against his stomach, but before I have a chance to reciprocate he hauls me over his shoulder and out of the shower. 

He sets me down on the drying pad where, at the touch of a button, my hair is instantly smooth and silky, my body dry and glowing. We don’t bother putting on pajamas as we walk into the bedroom.  

It does not escape me that this is the last time we will do this- climbing into bed together. Tomorrow night we’ll be in the arena and we’ll have to sleep in shifts so that one of us can keep watch. After tonight there will be no more luxurious pillow- topped beds, no more warm blankets, and no more of Peeta’s secure arms holding me as I sleep. 

So we make love all night. 

First is hard, fast, desperate. We don’t even try to be quiet. Each of us lets out the stress and frustrations of the day on the other, to explosive results. Next is slow, passionate. I can feel every facet, every ridge of Peeta’s cock as he slides tantalizingly in and out of me. I feel his breath hitch in his chest when he bends to kiss me. See the individual beads of sweat gathering around his face and neck as he fights to last longer for me. 

We make love again and again. In between bouts of sex, we rest, and while we rest, we talk. We divulge secrets and fears, likes and dislikes, pet peeves and bad habits. Anything and everything each of us doesn’t know about the other. Fulfilling a lifetime of conversations in one night. Every tiny detail Peeta gives me about himself I lock away in my heart, knowing that I’ll take them into the arena with me and hold them close until my end comes. 

We continue in this vein all night long, forgoing precious sleep in preparation for the Quell until we are too exhausted to move anymore. Instead we simply lay together, entwined in the most intimate way possible as the rosy light of dawn spills into the room. We’re both too terrified to end it because we know that one way or another, this opportunity will not come again. 

Eventually, Effie’s footsteps click down the hall, followed by her soft knock at our door. The dreaded knock that signifies the end of our last night together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peeta’s past with his mother is all my personal headcanon and it’s something I wish we had gotten in more detail from the books, so I hope you enjoyed reading it here. Next chapter we’re in the arena!
> 
> As usual, endless thanks go out to all of my readers. It means so much to me that so many people are reading and enjoying my writing. Feedback is always greatly appreciated by any fanfic author- as it’s the only payment we receive! So if you liked this chapter (and even if you didn’t) please tell me! 
> 
> Until next time! xoxo


	7. Part 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we enter the arena and you’ll have to forgive me as I’ve taken a few liberties with the timeline, but hey, it’s fan fiction. I’m allowed to do that. It doesn’t really interfere with the story in any way, so please enjoy!

 

“Come on, girl on fire, you need to eat _something_ ,” Cinna practically begs me, but I wrinkle my nose at the spread of Capitol delicacies aboard the hovercraft. After a fresh round of nausea and vomiting a few minutes ago, my stomach is still rocky.  Combine that with my anxiety about the Quell, and even the lamb stew has lost its appeal. But Cinna is resilient and going into the arena already with no sleep is extremely foolish, so I force myself to take a few bites. It’s tasteless mush as it slides down my dry throat. 

My stylist watches me eat, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, apprehension etched in every premature line of his young face. 

“You knew, didn’t you?” I say abruptly. “You knew I was pregnant before Peeta announced it.” 

A grimace tugs at the corners of Cinna’s mouth. “I had my suspicions,” he confirms. “And I wish I could give you my congratulations, Katniss. You and Peeta deserve to find happiness more than anyone I know. I wish so badly that the circumstances were different.” 

“Me too.” My voice trembles and Cinna sweeps me into a fierce hug. 

“You’ll be a great mother, you know,” he tells me. 

“That’s what Peeta says.” 

“But you don’t believe him?” 

I shrug my shoulders. “Marriage and babies were never on my list. I’m not cut out for that.”

“Really? Because I think that any girl who voluntarily enters a death match just to spare her little sister will be an amazing parent. You’ll never let anyone harm a hair on your kid’s head." 

It’s all hypothetical, of course. Cinna must know that. He must know that I have no intention of ever coming out of that arena alive. That he’s talking about a child who will never be. A mere dream. An abstract concept. 

“Cinna…” 

“Shhh,” he hushes me. “You just do whatever you can to survive in there, Katniss. Understand? Peeta, too.” This, at least, is something I can agree to. I’ll stay alive as long as Peeta needs me. Hopefully when I die, it will be to protect him. 

“Don’t forget, I’m still betting on you,” Cinna says. 

His last words stay with me, nestle deep into my chest and radiate strength through me as I step onto the plate and the glass wall rises around me. I press my palm to the cool barrier. A gesture of farewell.

Then the little bit I’d managed to eat comes back up again as I’m forced to watch Cinna beaten and dragged from the launch room by the Peacekeepers. But I have no time to grieve for my friend, for then the floor beneath my feet begins to ascend. 

I still haven’t pulled myself together before the sting of salty air hits my nose and the sun blinds me where I crouch on my pedestal. Waves lap around my ankles, washing away the remnants of my last meal from the metal plate. As my eyes adjust to the dazzling light I can just make out the form of the cornucopia on the island forty yards ahead of me. 

 _Deep Breaths. Take deep, calming breaths._

I have no clue how much of the one minute waiting period has elapsed, but it must be drawing to an end soon. My last image of Cinna, bloody and tortured, consumes my mind. He is still below, surely dying, if not already dead…

 _Push it down. Out of your mind. There’s nothing you can do now. This is exactly what Snow wants. He wants you rattled. He wants you to fail. Focus. Find Peeta. Stay alive._  

I brace myself, ready to hit the water as soon as the minute is up. I search frantically around me for Peeta, but I don’t see him anywhere. Before I can locate him, the gong sounds. I dive. 

Let the Games begin. 

 

*****

 

Ice shoots through my veins when the resounding SMACK of Peeta hitting the force field reverberates through the jungle. He’s thrown back from the wall, landing in a broken heap on the ground. He doesn’t stir. 

“Peeta!” Leaving my weapons behind in the dirt, I fling myself down next to him. My fingers desperately search his wrist, his neck for a pulse. They find none.

Surely, he’s dead. Gone, like Cinna only an hour before. 

My heart freezes in my chest and in that moment I’m outside of my body. Ripped from my living being with the pain of the loss. I return to myself in the next instant when Finnick approaches us, ready to kill him for daring to touch Peeta before I realize his true intentions. Finnick roughly shoves me out of his way, intent on delivering life- saving breaths to Peeta’s comatose body. 

The sound of horse, strangled sobs fills the air and only when I try to speak do I realize they’re coming from me. I’m trying to get my breathing under control when Peeta’s chest heaves. I scramble over to him as he coughs himself back to life. His lashes flutter open and his eyes meet mine. 

“Careful, there’s a force field up ahead,” he jokes weakly.

Relief. Glorious, sweeping relief. He’s okay. Alive. Breathing. 

I grab him and pull him close to me, my ear to his chest. I have to hear his heartbeat. Feel the actual thumping of life against his ribcage. It’s ridiculous, I _know_ he’s okay, but I need proof that he’s really alive.

Sure enough, his heart pounds steadily under my palm and I dissolve into disbelieving tears. “Never, _ever_ do that to me again,” I choke, unable to tame the violent trembling in my body.

Even though he’s the one who just died, Peeta’s soothing _me_ , his warm hand rubbing rhythmic circles on my back. “It’s okay, Katniss. Really, I’m fine.” 

“You were dead! Your heart stopped!” 

“Well, it seems to be working now. Besides, that was nothing compared to those tracker jackers you set on me. Or the time you had to drain all that pus from my leg? Way worse.” 

The corners of his mouth twitch into a smile, and I know he’s only trying to cheer me up, but it just brings on a more hysterical round of sobbing. 

“Hormones,” Finnick mutters behind me to Mags. 

A veined and knotted hand comes to rest on my shoulder, and I finally untangle myself from Peeta to find Mags behind me. She holds out a length of spongy moss, ripped from the trunk of a tree, and mimics blowing her nose into it.

“Thank you.” I give her a watery smile. Only an hour into the Games and I’m already cracking under the stress. That won’t do for the sponsors watching in the Capitol.

 _Deep breaths._ I’ve been saying it to myself so often today that it’s turned into a personal mantra. But it works. For the second time today, I force myself to pull it together. Lock away the emotions in a drawer at the very back of my mind. Put on the mask I usually reserve for my sessions in the Capitol with Peeta. Act strong, even though I feel anything but. 

 _Peeta’s okay._ I remind myself. _We’re both still here._ Then another, slightly smaller voice intrudes. _But for how much longer?_

I can’t bear to even consider the question.

 

*****

 

Only two days into the Quarter Quell have proven the arena itself to be far more deadly than even the most vicious tributes. The blood rain, the poisonous fog, the muttation monkeys- each fresh terror we face is worse than the last.

13 people are dead. One of our allies, Mags, is among that unlucky number. Or maybe I’ve got it backwards. Maybe those 13 are the lucky ones. Maybe the truly unfortunate are the rest of us, trapped like insects in this steaming fishbowl of an arena. Because we’re still here at the mercy of the Gamemakers. Still subjected to the hourly threat of the giant clock tick- tocking away at the rest of our lives.

In the midst of this hell, Peeta and I have found ourselves a rare private moment on the moonlit beach while we keep watch for our sleeping allies. Or, at least it’s as private as you can get here in the Hunger Games while night vision cameras abound. But with the smattering of stars in the night sky and the waves lapping up on the shore and the gentle breeze ruffling through the night, it’s easy to get lost in the moment and forget the audience watching at home. 

Sometime after the lightening strikes the tree in the distance, Peeta pulls the mockingjay pendant from around his neck, flips it open, and places it in my palm. One side of the locket contains a photo of Prim and my mother, both smiling serenely up at me. The other little window is blank. 

“Your family needs you, Katniss. You have to go home to them,” Peeta says, and then he points to the vacant side of the locket. “This is where you’re going to put a picture of our baby. She needs you, too.” 

Out of everything he’s said, his choice of pronoun is the thing that really catches my attention. ”She? How do you know it’s a girl?”

He shrugs. “Because whenever I try to picture the baby, all I see is a mini version of you.”

I hadn’t really given it much thought, but now that I stop to consider the matter, I think how Peeta’s blond curls would be positively angelic framing a baby’s sweet face. “No, I hope she looks like you,” I tell him, but then I realize the impossibility of my wish. Peeta’s gesture is honorable, but it has not changed my mind. Despite his assertions that I’m strong enough to carry on without him… he’s wrong. I can’t do it without him. The only solution left is to die for him.

As if sensing my thought process, Peeta goes on. “You’re going to get out of here, Katniss. You’re going to live and you’re going to take care of her. I know you can do it. You’ll be an amazing mother. There won’t be a child in this world more loved than ours. Just promise me that you’ll tell her about me. Make sure she knows who her father was.”

“But I need you, too. _We_ need you,” I whisper. He looks upset, draws in a breath like he’s gearing up to continue his argument. Before he can speak, I stop his lips with a fierce kiss.

After a few attempts, Peeta gives up on talking. The kiss evolves into a rapid clashing of tongues and teeth and lips, and it does nothing to quell the desire coiling low in my belly. It only makes the need stronger.

Soon I’m laying on top of him in the sand. With our hips flush together I can feel his obvious arousal pressing through the flimsy undergarments that are we have left after our wetsuits were destroyed by the poisonous fog.

I grind down, forcing a stifled groan from Peeta. “We can’t,” he admonishes me.

“Why not?” It’s not like we haven’t done this on camera before. That’s nothing new. And I want him so badly that I simply don’t care about anyone else anymore. 

Another groan drowns his answer when I slide myself up and down his length, which is growing ever harder the longer we stay in this position. I rock against him, teasing us both.

“I think it’s about time for Finnick to take his watch,” Peeta says, making to stand up, but I pin him fast to the ground. Or rather, he lets me pin him. Thanks to his wrestling background, he could easily throw me off if he were so inclined. He won’t, though. Because he wants it as much as I do. His glazed eyes and dilated pupils tell me that much.

“Katniss…” Ignoring his last, feeble attempt at dissuading me, my fingers slip beneath the waistband of his shorts. Wrap around the base of his cock, drawing it upward in a tantalizingly slow motion. Peeta’s head falls back in the sand, rendered powerless to stop me. 

I’ve done this often enough by now to know exactly what he needs. Just the right flick of the wrist that will elicit deep whines from the back of his throat. I focus on the sensitive head of his cock, now weeping with wetness. My thumb dips into the puddle, spreads it down the rest of his silken shaft to lubricate my movements. I’m rewarded with a throaty whine and a hissed _“Fuck, Katniss,”_ his fingers digging into the sand on either side of him.

I long to take him into my mouth, but oddly, it seems too intimate a thing to do in front of the cameras. That’s something I’d like to keep between us alone. But right now I know he needs _more_. And so do I. Shifting my underwear aside, I position his tip at my entrance. My eyes meet his in an imploring gaze. And because he’s Peeta and will deny me nothing, he finally surrenders with a nod of his head.

Before I can sink down onto him, he surprises me by rolling us in the sand so that his body hovers over mine. Brings a hand to my aching breasts to palm them gently. I gasp at the much- needed contact. My arms wrap around his neck and bring him down for a searing kiss. He repositions himself at the opening of my slick flesh, so ready for him, and thrusts forward. He begins to move, shallow and fast, more because of the watching audience than anything else, I think.

There’s really no way to hide this part, so I can only hope our families have turned away by this point. There have been couplings in the Games before, but usually more out of force or desperation than anything else. Quick and furious against a tree. In a shared sleeping bag. Behind some shrubbery.  Teenagers seeking one last thrill before slaughtering each other. Nothing like this. Nothing so intimate and real.  

Something between a gasp and a shriek emanates from my mouth when Peeta hits just the right spot within me, sending fireworks exploding behind my closed eyelids.  

“Shhh,” he hushes me, bringing his plush lips back to mine. How could I forget? We must be quiet. Our lives depend on it. His short thrusts come faster, rougher, and I wrap my legs around his waist to spur him on. 

A soft grunt. A rush of warmth.  With Peeta’s release comes my own. He swallows my silent scream with another kiss. Doesn’t stop kissing me until wave upon wave of pleasure has ebbed, leaving me limp and breathless, my contracting walls milking every last drop from him until we’re both spent in the damp sand.

All of the sudden laugh bubbles up through Peeta’s chest and bursts out of his mouth. He holds a hand to his face stifle the sound. “What’s so funny?” I ask him indignantly.

“It’s just… well this is such a far cry from last year,” he explains. “Imagine the girl who wouldn’t even look at me naked in the arena a year ago seducing me tonight.” His eyes are twinkling as he grins down at me and it brings a smile to my own lips. All the same, I give him an exasperated eye roll.

“Come on, let’s go wake Finnick.”

 

*****

 

For the first time in a long time, I dream pleasant dreams that night. Nothing concrete, but there are flashes of a golden- haired, cherubic child. One with sparkling clear blue eyes and Peeta’s infectious laugh. Chubby little legs and feet dancing in a beautiful meadow filled with dandelions, not unlike the field near my home in the Seam.

When I wake, there’s a feeling of contentment- a delicious happiness that I know is connected to Peeta, and somehow, to this phantom child.

The feeling does not linger however, because one glance at my surroundings- at the leafy green canopy above and the heavy, sticky air that seems to cling visibly to everything in sight- reminds me exactly where I am and what my current circumstances are. Good things never last long here in the arena.

My head spins when I sit up too fast, and I take several deep lungfuls of the humid air to quell the dizzy spell. “Katniss?” Peeta’s voice comes from his position beside me. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I tell him, stretching my limbs and wincing slightly at the soreness that’s settled between my legs as I slept. I don’t mention this to him, though. I don’t regret what we did on that moonlit beach last night and the last thing I want is for him to think that he hurt me in some way. He doesn’t look entirely convinced, but I shrug off his concerns and head down the beach to the rest of our allies. 

We lose Wiress that afternoon. I kill Gloss. Johanna hits her target, Cashmere, with a viciously swung axe. 16 people down.

Then the world becomes nothing more than a vividly green blur as the cornucopia spins out from underneath us, throwing everything into chaos. It takes every ounce of my strength to cling to the slippery purchase of the ground beneath me. When at last the island rights itself, we chose a sector at random, heading for the relative safety of the tree line. 

“I’m going hunting,” I announce after we’ve made our camp. The spinning cornucopia rattled me, and I’ve just finished being violently ill into the brush at the edge of the jungle. I need to _move_. Clear my head of the stupor that’s been hanging over me since I woke up this morning. Our food supplies are getting low, anyway.

“I’ll come with you,” Peeta says immediately. I heave an exasperated sigh. As much as I love him, he’s been hovering over me all day, and it’s getting on my nerves again. Besides, his heavy footfalls will only scare away the game.

“Katniss, I’m not letting you go anywhere alone.” His voice is firm. Finnick, Johanna, and Beetee linger nearby watching the argument unfold.

“Peeta…”

“I’m serious. We are _not_ going to be separated. Last time that happened, you got a near fatal head would and then I picked deadly Nightlock berries.”

“Fine!” I relent. “Stay behind me and try to walk quietly for once in your life!” I shake my head out of irritation, flipping my braid over my shoulder. Ignoring Finnick’s amused smile and Johanna’s unabashed laughter at the pair of us, I stalk into the thick greenery with Peeta in tow. 

He doesn’t seem at all fazed by my roller coaster attitude these past few days. He keeps to Finnick’s line about “pregnancy hormones” taking over my rational thought processes, which only serves to annoy me even more. I’m not an invalid. I can handle myself perfectly fine. I don’t need their excuses or their pity. 

Here in the arena my hunter’s senses are alert and fine- tuned, but Peeta is yet again scaring off any potential game with his graceless, clumsy footsteps. I can tell that he’s making an effort to be quiet as he tails me through the jungle, albeit failing miserably. I’ll never shoot anything with him following me. 

I spin on my heel, prepared to scold him when I hear it. A soft whimper. It sounds as though it’s coming from somewhere in the trees ahead.

“Did you hear that?” I hiss, in lieu of the reprimand I’d been about to deliver. 

“Hear what?” Peeta’s eyes widen. They dart around the trees surrounding us, searching for signs of danger. Then the cry comes again, slightly louder this time. It’s familiar and yet it’s not- an achingly desperate, needy sound. One that curdles the blood in my veins.

The cry is unmistakably that of an infant. 

Pure instinct dictates my next movements as I run full- tilt into the dense brush ahead, puling an arrow from my quiver and readying my bow as I go. 

“Katniss!” Peeta calls, crashing through the undergrowth behind me. “Katniss, stop!” But I can’t stop. I don’t even care that we’re both being foolishly loud, easily giving away our position. I don’t care about hunting or the Quell anymore. The other tributes do not exist. All I know is that there is a human infant here in the arena, and by the sound of its increasingly loud and agonized cries, it is being tortured. I don’t want to imagine what someone would have to do to a baby that would cause it to produce that sound. I have to find it. I _have_ to save it. 

Finally I reach a small clearing. Here the wails are louder, more tortured than ever. My eyes search high in the trees, then through the dense greenery low to the ground, trying to distinguish the general direction of the sounds, but now the cries reverberate around the entire forest, completely disorienting me. 

Peeta catches up to me just as I spot it. The black- and- white jabberjay perched high on a tree branch, its mouth open wide as it emits the symphony of howling wails. My arrow pierces its throat less than a second later. I turn back to Peeta, both terror and relief clutching at my chest. 

“It wasn’t real,” I croak, falling into his waiting arms. 

“I know,” he soothes. “Shhh, Katniss, it’ll be alright.” He strokes my hair, murmurs comforting words in my ear. “Come on, let’s head back. We’ll just make due with the food we’ve got for now, okay?”

I allow him to lead me out of the clearing. It is relatively easy to locate the trail we followed to this place, thanks to the trampled brush Peeta left in his wake, but almost as soon as we start heading back to the beach, the screams start up again. There are more of them this time- louder, more agonized, if that is even possible. All reasoning leaves me. I wrench myself away from Peeta to chase after them once more. 

Peeta, with his false leg, simply can’t keep up. He trails behind me, all the while calling for me to stop. I only run faster.

The screams, the cries, the shrieks multiply tenfold as I speed toward their source. 

 _It’s not real._ _They’re only jabberjays. Just mutts,_ the rational part of my mind tries to remind me. But it _is_ real, so terrifyingly real. 

I pause to catch my breath when I reach another clearing, and from here I can see the edge of the jungle. The deep blue ocean sparkles in the distance and the barest hint of the cornucopia glinting in the unforgiving sunlight is just visible. Peeta has finally caught up to me. 

“Katniss!” 

The absolute fear and horror twisting my name on his tongue terrifies me like nothing else in the arena so far. Something in the tone of his voice is off. It’s a different kind of desperation than even a few minutes ago when he pleaded for me to stop running after the first jabberjay. I can’t make sense of it. 

“Oh my god, _Katniss_.” 

The expression on his face sends a fresh jolt of terror rippling down my spine. His pallor is a pale, sickly gray and his eyes are alight with fear. I have never, ever seen him look so scared, and it is perhaps the only thing in the world that could distract me from the jabberjays’ screams. 

“What?” I panic, raising my bow with its nocked arrow and spinning in a wild circle, but no visible threat looms in the jungle. Peeta seems unable to speak. Instead, he raises his hand and points a trembling finger right at _me_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, evil cliffhangers are evil. Feel free to yell at me in the comments. Or come find me on tumblr: everlarkstoastbabies


	8. Part 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter, I feel like I should include a slight trigger warning. Scroll to the bottom for full disclosure, but if you don’t want to be spoiled, just know that nothing here is more graphic than anything in THG books. If you’re okay with that, read on!

 

Following the direction of Peeta’s index finger, I see it immediately. Blood trickling in grisly rivers down my legs. _Oh god_. 

He catches me just as my knees buckle, lowers me gently to the ground. I roll away from him to vomit onto the spongy, green jungle floor.

There is too much blood. Far too much blood. It soaks rapidly through my thin undergarments, and now that my panting breaths are dying down, I become acutely aware of the stabbing pains low in my belly and back.

“We have to get out of here!” Peeta shouts, barely audible over the cacophony of screaming jabberjays. The cramps spike when I try to move, and I fall back to the ground in agony. From my hunched position, I’m almost positive that my legs won’t be able to carry me even if I _could_ stand up straight, but Peeta hauls me into his arms and heads for the strip of sand just visible between the trees. 

I clamp my hands around my ears as he runs. I can’t bear to listen to them. The crying infants, the bright red blood staining my clothes and legs, the searing pain- it’s all too much.

But as Peeta reaches the edge of the jungle, we find he can go no farther. The entirely solid, transparent force field prevents us from leaving the thick labyrinth. Johanna, Finnick, and Beetee stand just on the other side of the barrier, clearly worried and confused. I can see them pounding their fists against the wall, see their lips moving, but hear nothing. 

We are trapped in this hell. 

Peeta sinks to the ground with me still wrapped in his arms. Both of us are soaked in my blood now. I turn away from the clear wall, away from my allies, away from the cameras. I bury my face in his chest and hide from the world. He clutches me tight to him, rocks me back and forth. We don’t speak. We both know what is happening and there is absolutely nothing we can do to stop it. A more defeated and helpless feeling I’ve never known in my life.

I’m losing my baby. I’m losing _Peeta’s_ baby on national television. The screen of every person in Panem- in the Capitol and Districts alike- is no doubt focused on us right now. People are surely glued to the spectacular show, transfixed by the public grief of the doomed star- crossed lovers. 

The morbid discord of screaming babies is deafening by this point. I know for certain the sounds will never leave my ears. Indeed, they are sure to haunt me in the few nights I have left to live. I clutch Peeta harder still at the thought. Dry, choking sobs wrack my body. He is shaking, too, but I don’t lift my face to glance at him. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to look him in the eye again after this. 

It seems like hours later when a gentle hand comes to rest on my shoulder. “It’s over,” Finnick murmurs. “Come on, Katniss, we should get you in the water.” I refuse to let go of Peeta, however, so Finnick helps him to his feet and together they walk down the beach. Over Peeta’s shoulder, I can see the droplets of blood we leave behind in the sand. 

The sight makes my nausea return with a vengeance, the cramps in my belly spiking painfully. I whimper into Peeta’s neck. He wades into the ocean, stopping only when the water level has reached his chest. It laps over me, rinsing away the blood as the waves ebb and flow. “The others are keeping guard for us,” he murmurs. “I’m going to help you clean up, okay?” His voice breaks on the last word. 

For the first time since I collapsed in the jungle, I peek into Peeta’s eyes. I wish I hadn’t. 

Pain. Agony. Devastation. None are strong enough words for the expression twisting his features now. It is seeing this overwhelming grief on his face that sends tears welling in my eyes, my very last shred of self- control now hopelessly gone. 

“I’m sorry,” I choke out between a fresh round of heaving sobs. “I’m s-so s-sorry, Peeta.” He never relinquishes his hold on me, and for that I am grateful. He is the only real thing in the world. His unfailingly strong arms are all that prevent me from falling apart completely. 

Silent tears stream down his cheeks as he whispers a mantra over and over again. “Shhh, Katniss, please. It’s not your fault, Katniss. It’s not your fault. “ 

He pulls my hair over my shoulders, fanning it in front of my face to hide me from the gawking cameras. He must have unbraided it at some point without my notice. It causes another wave of grief to crest within me for this boy who has suffered so much and has almost nothing left to lose, and yet he’s still going out of his way to take care of me. 

We remain wrapped in each other for a long time, blood swirling in the water around us only to be washed away by the waves every few seconds. 

After a while I remember the locket Peeta gave me just last night. Prying it open, my family smiles serenely up at me, but the empty window on the other side brings a fresh lump to my throat. The baby was supposed to go there. No other picture will ever be able to take its place. The little window will be forever empty, a morbid reminder of the newly torn hole in my heart. 

Peeta seems to be thinking along the same lines, because then he reaches for the necklace and snaps off the empty side of the locket, leaving the photo of Prim and Mother still attached to the chain. He kisses the piece in his palm and then holds it out to me. The metal is cool and unyielding beneath my lips. Peeta grasps my hand and together, we drop the locket half into the ocean. 

We watch as the glimmer of gold sinks into the dark depths of the water. It is goodbye. A last farewell to our poor, poor child. Yet another victim of the Hunger Games. 

Peeta and I jump when the cannon blasts in the distance. Our eyes meet, and in that moment I know we’re both wondering the same thing. Has another tribute died? Or was the blast for our lost child? It seems like just the kind of dramatic ending the Gamemakers would devise after such an exciting day of the Games. 

I guess we’ll know tonight when the death toll is projected into the sky. 

“It’s late,” Peeta mumbles. “We should be heading in.” Indeed, the sun has almost disappeared beyond the horizon. The Gamemakers have allowed us this brief respite to grieve, but soon the night will be upon us, as will the renewed threat of the arena and the remaining tributes.

Although aching cramps still pierce my stomach and lower back at regular intervals, the worst of the bleeding seems to be over. I lean heavily on Peeta as he helps me out of the water and we trudge up the beach and to the edge of the jungle, where I use the absorbent moss that Mags showed me to catch any residual blood. Then we head back toward our group of allies. No one says anything when we drop down by the fire, but I do note that someone has retrieved my bow from the jungle. I don’t even remember dropping it.

Eventually Finnick speaks into the silence, declaring that he’ll take the first watch. Beetee volunteers to stay up with him and the two set off a little ways down the beach to find a good vantage point. Johanna, usually so brash and confident, looks lost, like she can think of nothing to say appropriate to the situation. Instead she lays down on one of Finnick’s woven mats and curls in upon herself to sleep. This leaves Peeta and me alone once again. 

He drags another one of the mats over to me and lies down, drawing me into the safety of his broad chest. “I’m sorry, Peeta,” I whisper. I’ve said little else since escaping the jungle, but I feel responsible. I need him to understand that. I can’t shake the feeling that I have failed him in some way. That I wasn’t strong enough to carry his child. Not that I’d expected the baby to survive the arena, because I’d been prepared to die here and take it with me. 

What was it really, but the cause of my nausea and a nameless lump of tissue? I never expected this. Never did I think I’d feel a loss that cut so deep it feels like a part of my very self has died. I can physically feel the suffocating grief ripping a jagged, gaping hole in my heart. It runs even deeper than the scarred- over fissure left by my father’s death. 

“Katniss, stop apologizing. _Please_. It’s killing me,” Peeta begs in a strangled voice. Our conversation is cut short by the national anthem as it blares throughout the arena. No new faces appear in the sky tonight. The other tributes are surely confused. There was a cannon blast, after all, but its significance does not escape me, and nor does it escape Peeta. 

I remain silent and will myself not to cry again. The audience and the sponsors have already seen me acting like a weakling all day long. I can’t afford to indulge in my emotions anymore. 

Peeta reaches for my left hand, wrapping it firmly in his own. Bringing his lips to my ear, he breathes the words so quietly that not even the high- tech Capitol audio recorders will catch them. “It means I love you. No matter what. It’s not your fault,” he says for what feels like the thousandth time today. “I don’t blame you, Katniss. It’s not your fault.”

I sniffle and nod into his neck. I wish I could believe him.

 

*****

 

Neither of us sleeps tonight. Sometime after midnight, when the downpour of blood rain is just audible in a distant sector, I whisper into the relative quiet of our little beach camp. “Peeta?” 

“Hmmm?” he murmurs. 

“What are we doing?” 

He shifts so that he can look me in the eye. “What do you mean?” 

“I mean that our only goals coming into this were to keep the each other alive. But who are we kidding? The odds are against us. They always have been, so why even fight them anymore?” My words surprise even myself. I’m not one to give up, but with the loss of the baby came the end of my will to live. I realized at some point in the last few hours that had my original plan succeeded, I would have saddled Peeta with the loss of not only his child, but of me as well. How could I have expected him to go home and live with that? It’s unfair to leave him alone with that pain. It was a cowardly move on my part, really.

“Katniss… I still want you to go home. That hasn’t changed. You can have a life. You can still be happy,” he implores me, but I shake my head sadly. 

“No, I can’t. Not without you.” 

“But your family needs-“ 

“No they don’t,” I cut him off before he has the chance to get going again. “Prim is growing up. My mother is in a much better place now. They don’t need me anymore. Think about it, Peeta. We almost did it last year with the berries. We could do it for real this time. Neither one of us intend to survive, but if we went together… I think I could live with that.” If Peeta catches on to the irony of my words, he doesn’t say. 

“I don’t like hearing you talk like this,” he says. “You never give up, Katniss. You’re a survivor.” 

“I’m only a survivor because someone gave me hope,” I argue. “If you’re gone… I won’t have that anymore. I’ll have lost two things precious to me.” He still shows signs of protesting, so I hurry on. “Have you ever heard the tale of the original star- crossed lovers? It didn’t end well for them, Peeta. Their story was a tragedy. I think we were just doomed from the start like you said.”

“Let’s just… can we wait until morning at least? Let’s feel out the alliance and see how things are going and then we’ll decide what to do. You’re under a lot of stress and I don’t want us making any rash decisions like that until later in the game. Agreed?” Acknowledging that this is the best I’ll get from him for now, I nod reluctantly against his chest.

 

*****

 

When morning comes, no one seems to want to look me in the eye. It’s almost like I’m diseased or undesirable, or maybe it’s just that they don’t know how to treat me. Peeta, at least takes my hand in his, eating his breakfast awkwardly with his left so that he can keep ahold of me. I clutch his hand as though it’s a lifeline, the only thing tethering me to this earth. 

Then Beetee presents us with his plan to run the wire from the lightning tree to the salt water, electrifying the arena and the remaining tributes. We all agree, though Peeta and I share a look of skepticism. 

“Do you think it’ll work?” he asks me later when we the others are off preparing for our departure to the tree. 

I shrug. “It’s how Beetee won his Games, isn’t it? He seems like he knows what he’s talking about.”

“Exactly. How do we know that plan doesn’t include frying us too? We can barely comprehend what he’s talking about. What if we’re the _real_ targets?” 

Glancing over at our allies, I want to trust them. More than once, Finnick has saved Peeta’s life in here. I’m certain that Beetee took my turn as look out last night, because he never roused me from my uneasy sleep to keep watch. Even Johanna has a defiant determination about her that I can’t help but admire. 

But these are the Hunger Games. Anything goes. The only person I can truly trust in here is Peeta. “What are you saying? Do you want to leave now?” I ask him. 

“I don’t want to cause suspicion or open hostilities too early on,” he reasons. “Let’s stick with them for now and stay on our toes.” 

“Okay,” I agree, but Peeta still looks anxious. “What’s wrong?” 

“It’s just… it’s a long way to the lightning tree. I’m worried about you. How are you feeling?” 

His question takes me slightly aback. It’s the first reference either of us has made to the events of yesterday and I know it’s not only my physical state he’s referring to. 

“I’m fine,” is my immediate response, but Peeta raises his eyebrows disbelievingly. 

Truth be told, I’m far from fine. I’m no longer pregnant, but my body doesn’t seem to have registered that fact. Nausea still swells in my stomach, which threatens to expel my breakfast of raw fish and stale rolls at any minute. Cramping, searing pains still pierce my abdomen, as though I hadn’t had enough of that yesterday. My limbs feel impossibly heavy, as though they’re full of lead, but my head feels oddly light and dizzy and I just can’t get a proper lungful of air in this steaming hot arena. 

Truth be told, I feel like giving up. I meant what I said to Peeta last night, though he blamed my inclinations on duress. I’m exhausted. I’m in pain. I’ve been exploited in front of the entire country more times than I care to count. I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to lay down here on this beach and tell Snow that he’s won. That I quit. 

The girl on fire is gone. Extinguished. Broken. Because I can’t find it in me to fight any longer. 

“We’re still in this, Katniss.” Peeta’s soft voice drags me back from the depths of my tumultuous thoughts. He slides a finger under my chin and tilts it up so that I’m looking right at him. “You and me. We’re still here. Together. That should count for something, right?” 

“But for how much longer?” 

Peeta doesn’t reply. Instead, he opens his hand and holds it out to me. Resting in his palm is a small object. Pearlescent gray. Imperfect. Beautiful. He tips his palm and the pearl rolls into my own hand. 

“I found it in one of the oysters this morning,” he says. “It seems strange, doesn’t it? How there are still beautiful things to be found in the world, even here in the arena.” 

It boggles my mind, how unfailingly positive Peeta can be. Here I am, ready to surrender and he pulls this out of nowhere. He’s not going to let me give up. 

The pearl sitting in my hand glints in the golden sunlight, reminding me absurdly of a dandelion. Picked a lifetime ago in the middle of a desolate gray field while a boy with striking blue eyes looks on… 

“You two ready to go?” Finnick appears before us, trident in hand. 

My fingers clench reflexively around Peeta’s final gift. The two of us share a last determined look, a last nod in agreement. “Let’s go.” 

It turns out that Peeta was right about the journey to the lightning tree. The walk _is_ longer than I had anticipated. And more strenuous, besides. He watches me like a hawk the entire way. Each time I trip or stumble over some obstacle on the jungle floor, his hands shoot out automatically, ready to catch me if I should fall. In fact, he stumbles more than I do, thanks to his obsessive watch over me. I want to tell him to forget about me and focus on his own walking, but I don’t have the breath. Twice, we stop so that I can be sick into the foliage. 

When at last we reach the tree, Beetee and Finnick begin to wind the wire around it, forming an intricate, golden pattern on the trunk. 

“When we’re finished here, Johanna and Katniss can take the coil back to the water,” Finnick says. “Peeta, you and I can stay here to guard Beetee.”

“No.” There’s a hard edge to Peeta’s voice that I’ve only ever heard on rare occasions.  Once or twice during our training for the Quell. The time he shoved the Peacekeepers’ guns away from me in District 11. Back in President Snow’s office at the end of our ill-fated Victory Tour. It is a vehement, unrelenting sound, and it promises no surrender. “Katniss needs to rest. She can’t take the coil all the way back to the beach.” 

“Peeta, I’m okay, just give me a minute,” I insist, panting to regain my breath and attempting to massage away the cramping pains in my abdomen. Finnick, however, watches me with trepidation, seeming to realize that Peeta may have a point.

“Fine,” he says. “Peeta, you go with Johanna-“ 

“No. Katniss and I stay together.”

Finnick rolls his eyes, irritated now. “Peeta, she’ll be fine here with me and Beetee. This is the only way-“ Before I can even comprehend what’s happening, Peeta grabs hold of Finnick and has him pinned to the nearest tree. One arm braced against his chest to hold him in place, the other crushing his windpipe. Finnick easily has a good four inches on him, but Peeta holds the taller man steady with minimal effort.

“We. Stay. Together,” he growls. The two men face off for a full ten seconds. Thunder begins to rumble overhead, the clouds in the sky swirling with the oncoming lightning storm. There’s no time to argue. Finnick relents in a huff of exasperation. Peeta gives him another shove for good measure, then releases him and returns to my side. 

“Come on Johanna. We’ve got some ground to cover.” Tossing a last look of disgruntled annoyance over his shoulder, Finnick grabs the coil of wire and together, he and Johanna take the path that will lead them to the beach. 

“Was that really necessary?” I ask Peeta when they’ve disappeared into the trees.

“Would you rather be separated?” 

“Of course not, but-“ 

“Then it was necessary,” Peeta says. Then under his breath, so that Beetee can’t hear. “There’s something going on here and I don’t like it. The faster this plan works, the faster we get ourselves out of here.” 

I can’t help but agree. I’m getting the feeling that everyone knows something that Peeta and I don’t. Again, like perhaps we’re the targets in this equation. Something is just not adding up; there’s a missing element and I feel like it’s hanging in the air, staring me in the face. Elusive. Just out of reach. 

Beetee approaches us with the spile in hand. “Peeta, why don’t we get some water while Katniss rests? Then maybe we can establish guard duties.” After a brief moment of hesitation, Peeta seems to decide that Beetee meant no harm in his suggestion. He tightens his fist around his knife and follows the older man to tap a nearby tree. 

They work on digging the spile into the trunk while the thunder grows louder in the midst of the approaching storm. The lightning will be striking the tree soon, and I wonder whether we should move away to a safer area before it happens. I’m just about to express this concern to Beetee when several things happen at once. The golden wire suddenly goes slack on the ground, the frayed end of it snaking back to our feet, no longer connected to the coil with Finnick and Johanna. Voices sound in the vicinity. Heavy footsteps running through the trees around us. Careers? 

Abandoning the tree and the spile, Peeta brandishes his knife and begins to stalk toward the direction of the disturbance.

“Peeta, no!” I yell, then clap my hands over my mouth, realizing too late that shouting was probably the stupidest thing I could have done in our current position. My cry stops him, at least, before he’s able to make much headway. Before he can argue with me, a snapping, electrical ZAP echoes from behind us. 

Turning around to locate the source of the sound, we rush to Beetee where he lies on the ground in a feebly stirring heap. Peeta retrieves smoking knife tied to a piece of wire laying a few feet away on the ground. “What the…” 

I’m tying to reconcile this image in my head, trying to make sense of it all, when Finnick’s voice comes through the trees. 

“Katniss! Peeta!” But we don’t call back. Everything is rapidly dissolving into a mass of chaos. The alliance is too uncertain, too shaky for me to trust anyone anymore. My hand flies to the quiver of arrows on my back, readying my bow for the inevitable fight. Finnick crashes through the undergrowth, sees my arrow nocked and aimed at his neck, and raises his hands in a defensive position. 

“Don’t, Katniss,” he says quietly. We face off, Peeta and I on one side and Finnick on the other. The latter doesn’t even have a weapon. Not even his trident. He’s defenseless. 

The loudest peal of thunder yet cracks across the sky, and something in my mind clicks into place. At last I see what Beetee was trying to accomplish. At least, I think I do. Peeta and I weren’t the targets after all…

_Remember who the real enemy is._

Stripping the wire from Beetee’s knife, I wind it hastily around the tip of my own arrow. Somehow I know this is what must happen. What I have to do. 

The lightning strikes. The arrow flies. 

Peeta realizes what I’m doing a second too late. He lunges for me, his terrified eyes locking on my own. His fingers fumble for mine, but they’re unable to find purchase on my sweaty palm before the arrow finds its target in the force field and we’re blasted apart from each other. 

Deafening explosions go off in all directions as I lay paralyzed on the ground, my fingers still moving, still searching for Peeta. He is nowhere to be found. 

The edges of the world are beginning blur and blackness creeps into my vision. It closes over me, weighs down my limbs, dragging me into an impossibly dark void. I summon every last bit of energy left in me to call out weakly for him… _Peeta._  

The sound of his name never makes it past my lips before I’m forced to succumb to the darkness.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Katniss experiences a miscarriage in this chapter. I mentioned above that nothing is more graphic than in the books (which are fairly graphic in their own right) but the imagery may be disturbing for some readers. 
> 
> I’d also like to add that nothing I write in reference to Katniss’s pregnancy and miscarriage is meant as a political statement or as a reflection of my own beliefs. I’m simply interpreting Katniss’s feelings in a way that I feel is relevant to her character. 
> 
> A/N: The reception I’ve received for this is above and beyond what I ever expected, so enormous thanks go out to all of you for reading, commenting, and giving kudos. If you stick with me, I promise that I’m a strong believer in happy endings. (Or as happy as you can get with this series!)
> 
> Until next time, xoxo


	9. Part 8

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I was in the Hunger Games. I escaped. I was pregnant. The baby is gone. Peeta is gone. He is thought to be dead. It is better if they are both dead._

The words run through my head on a constant loop, reminding me of the only things I know to be true. I cling to them while my sanity slips away. 

A constant influx of doctors pass in and out of my room, incomprehensible words and snippets of conversation floating around with them. _Wreaked havoc on her immune system… possible concussion… might have to administer an aspiration…_  

I shut them out as best as I can. Thankfully, it’s not difficult thing to do under the hazy cocktail of drugs administered through the various tubes in my arm. 

I drift in and out of consciousness for and indeterminable length of time. In brief moments of clarity, the doctors tell me that my injuries in the arena caused _significant damage_ , and that many surgeries and procedures were required to put me back together. Because the elements I was exposed to in the arena weakened my immune system so greatly, I’m kept in isolation, which is fine with me. I have no desire to see anyone but Peeta, and that is not an option. 

They tell me that we were blasted apart from each other when my arrow struck the force field. The rebels had already lifted Finnick from the arena when the Capitol hovercrafts were quickly closing in, and they had to make a choice. 

 They chose me. 

With that split- second decision they determined that my life was worth more than Peeta’s, but they couldn’t have been more wrong. 

Despite my wishes to never set eyes upon him again, Haymitch is cleared to see me a few days after I’ve arrived in District 13 to deliver the most devastating blow of all. His face still bears the wounds from my nails when I woke up and discovered Peeta was missing. I almost wish I did not hear what he has to say, although I would have hated him more than I already do if he kept it from me. Haymitch knows me better than anyone else, I think. He knows better than to sugarcoat the truth. 

“This was delivered to me right after you entered the jabberjay wedge,” he says, handing me an extremely crumpled, stained piece of paper. It has obviously been read and reread several times, and by the look of the stains, Haymitch spilled one (or more likely, several) of his drinks on it. The presidential seal is still visible at the bottom of the note, which only contains three words: 

 _Enjoy the show._  

“Peeta was right; it really wasn’t your fault. It was in the food you ate before you went into the arena. The poison… it caused the miscarriage.” Haymitch’s voice trembles. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” 

He doesn’t tell me how he garnered this last bit of information and I don’t ask. Instead I turn to face the wall, allowing the suffocating grief to sweep over me. It consumes my mind and body like a bitter toxin until I can feel nothing but pain and grief and crushing loneliness. The only person who could ever make me feel better is gone, probably being beaten and tortured at this very moment. 

“Please,” I croak, and for all his faults, Haymitch understands what I need. He presses the button at my bedside, and I sigh with relief as the drugs seep into my veins, welcoming the oncoming oblivion.

 

*****

It is several weeks later when at last I’ve been determined stable, but bed- ridden, and Plutarch Heavensbee and Alma Coin, President of District 13 herself, come to see me. My thoughts are still muddled after my concussion in the arena, but I try to keep up as they explain that I am the “Mockingjay,” the symbol of the revolution. 

“We understand now that thanks to your injuries in the arena, you will only be able to help the war effort in a minimal capacity, which is not as ideal as we’d hoped…” and here President Coin sends Plutarch a nasty look, “but we’re sure you’re willing to help in any way possible.” I can only stare at the pair of them in disbelief. 

“No.”

“ _No?_ ” Coin echoes, visibly affronted. 

“No,” I repeat. 

“Miss Everdeen, I don’t think you understand the enormity of our situation. Hugely significant resources were disposed to get you out of that arena. Hovercrafts. Fuel. Weaponry. Soldiers. Everything was meticulously planned and executed for _you_. Our first priority is the Mockingjay. Your country needs you.” 

“I can’t help them,” I say mulishly. Who am I to help others when I’m so broken beyond repair myself? 

My reluctance does nothing to quell Plutarch’s enthusiasm as he goes on about his grand plans for promotional footage and inspirational speeches and the great symbol of the _Mockingjay_ that will rally the districts to rebellion. Coin, however, watches on in stony silence, her arms folded tightly across her chest. All the talk just makes my head hurt even more, so I begin to whine until a nurse is summoned to administer another dose of morphling.

Before I drift into the familiar void of blissful unawareness, I distinctly hear Coin tell Plutarch, “I _told_ you we should have rescued the boy first.”

I couldn’t agree more.

 

*****

 

The entire scene seems to happen in slow motion. 

After six long weeks, Peeta is back. Finally, _finally_ , I can see him again, touch him, hold him. The giddiness is almost overwhelming after the haze of depression I’ve lived in for the better part of two months.

He looks up when I enter the hospital room in a frenzied rush, sweeps the doctors aside, and meets me in the middle of the room. I don’t realize that something is not right in the depths of his eyes until it is too late, and when his hands close around my neck, my last fleeting wish is for a quick death. 

I don’t get my wish, however, and when I wake up in my hospital bed the next morning, my neck is sore and my voice hoarse. This suits me, because I have nothing to say in any case. Prim is allowed to wheel me to the observation area of Peeta’s hospital room, where the doctors explain to me what has happened to him. 

 _Hijacking_. Targeting the center where fear lives in the brain. Using venom to alter specific memories and emotions. In short, Peeta been programmed to fear me, to see me as a threat. 

I cover my face with my arms because it’s impossible to comprehend. For someone to make Peeta forget that he loves me? No one could ever do that. 

“Can’t you fix him?” Prim asks with a worried glance at me.

“We’re trying everything we can at the moment, but we need to know how extensive the damage is first,” one of the doctors says. 

I watch from behind the glass as Delly Cartwright tentatively approaches Peeta. She starts out okay, trying to engage him in a harmless conversation about their childhood together, but the situation quickly deteriorates. 

“She’s a mutt! A stinking mutt! She killed my family! My friends! She killed my _baby_. It’s her fault! Don’t even go near her!” 

At Peeta’s crazed accusation, I can’t take any more. I flee the observation room, finding my way into a secluded storage closet. Hunched among the jumble of buckets and mops and sanitary chemicals, I wrap my arms tightly around my torso in a feeble attempt to hold the ragged, broken pieces of myself together. I wish so badly for the strong arms of the boy who once performed this task, but that is no longer possible. The last time I’d been in those arms, they’d tried to strangle me. They’d almost succeeded, too. Again, I wish they had. At least then I would be free of this pain. 

Often in times like this, when the despair settles upon my entire being like a physical weight, when it is all I can do not to succumb to the inner turmoil and just end it all, I think of my mother. I think maybe I’ve been too hard on her. Maybe I judged her too harshly for her behavior after my father’s death, because right now the only thing I’d like to do is crawl into bed and shut out the entire world. I want to go to sleep and never wake up again. 

The others call for me in the distance as these morbid thoughts race through my brain, but I ignore them. Peeta’s voice in my head is far louder than those searching for me. Behind my closed eyelids I can see his eyes, insane with rage, and hear the cruel words ringing through my ears. _She killed my baby! It’s her fault!_  

This is worse than my worst nightmare. I thought I lost Peeta once already when he was captured and taken to the Capitol, but having him back hijacked and screaming insanities is far, far worse than the former.

My hand finds my way to my pocket, wherein lies the pearl that was Peeta’s last gift to me. My fingers wrap around it, holding it as if it were a lifeline, as strong and solid and dependable as the giver himself. 

_“It seems strange, doesn’t it? How there are still beautiful things to be found in the world?”_

But Peeta’s positivity means nothing without Peeta himself here to verify it. There is nothing beautiful left in my life. Everything has been stripped away from me and there’s no getting it back.  

I stay in the closet clutching the pearl in my fist until Haymitch arrives to drag me out.

 

*****

 

When my mother and Prim are busy working in the hospital, (which is most of the time nowadays, with all of the wounded soldiers coming back from the battles in the districts) Gale is delegated to bring me from the hospital to the cafeteria for my meals. Someone along the way decided that forcing me into a social atmosphere- rather than allowing me to mope secluded in my hospital bed all day- would be good for me. The doctors think it might coax me into behaving normally again if I develop a routine with familiar people. So far, this strategy is not working very well. 

If my relationship with Gale was cold before the Quell, it is downright icy now. He barely speaks to me during our meals together. I know that he’s hurt and angry, but what can I do about it now? He was forced to watch along with the rest of the country as I lost Peeta’s baby on national television and subsequently pleaded with him to commit suicide together. He saw Peeta and me as we made love on the beach together; every shining moment was broadcasted for the world to see, just as I suspected it would be. 

Now after the fact, it is much easier to feel shame for allowing myself to lose control of my inhibitions in the arena, but that was my very last moment of intimacy with Peeta, probably forever. I can’t bring myself to regret it, even though the memory brings a hot flush of humiliation to my face every time I think about it. 

Gale hasn’t mentioned it explicitly, but I can see the fury in his clenched jaw and hard eyebrows every time someone mentions the Quarter Quell within his earshot. Now he can no longer deny, even to himself, how I feel about Peeta. I think knowing that for certain broke Gale’s heart. 

For my part, I’m almost positive that our friendship will never recover, but I don’t really have the energy to care all that much. Gale is a loss, one that stirs a feeble pang of regret in my stomach, but in the end he’s just another addition to my ever- growing list. It feels shameful to admit, but losing him does not cut nearly as deep as it did losing Peeta and the baby. 

A couple of days after he returns from the rescue mission to the Capitol, Gale’s coolly detached voice breaks unexpectedly through our usually silent meal. “Coin instructed me to tell you that she held up her end of the bargain, so you’re due in Command after lunch for a Mockingjay meeting.”

It’s the longest sentence he’s spoken to me since my arrival in 13, and it fills me with cold, sweeping dread. 

Coin is right. The rebels have rescued Peeta, Annie, and Johanna, and in return, I finally relented to be their Mockingjay. Selfishly, I can’t help thinking that Coin has not delivered Peeta whole and unharmed to me and therefore our deal is moot, but if I refuse to comply she will likely kill him when this war is over. 

Which is worse- a dead Peeta or a Peeta driven mad by way of hijacking? I used to think that nothing could be worse than his death, but I find that I am not so certain of that anymore. 

So for the next few weeks, I’m poked and prodded and polished by my prep team, after which Plutarch hands me cheesy lines to memorize for the propos. But it isn’t working, this arrangement. I’m stiff and awkward in front of the cameras and the words come out stilted and unconvincing. None of the crew can understand why, but I know. There’s something missing. Something they overlooked when they failed to rescue Peeta from the arena. We have always been a team, Peeta and me. The entire star-crossed lovers trope is his creation, and not even the Mockingjay can work without him. 

Things brighten a little when they put me in training. I find it easier to clear my head of the fog of depression and morphling when I’m in the open air, running and stretching and practicing drills with the other soldiers. 

Peeta and the baby always loom in the back of my mind, though. The _real_ Peeta. The one with jaunty blond curls and sparkling clear blue eyes. Not the boy with dark, haunted features crazed with hatred and distrust. 

Sometimes the memories of him are so real that I can almost feel his touches lingering on my skin. His muscled arms wrapped around me, a playful finger finding a tickle spot, his hand splayed in wonder across my stomach. 

Peeta makes almost nightly appearances in my dreams, always cradling a bundle of soft blankets concealing the infant within. The initial joy I feel at the sight, at both of them whole and healthy, is quickly overridden with guilt and grief, for dream-Peeta never lets me near the baby. 

 _“You’ll kill her!” he rages. “You’re an evil mutt! I won’t let you near our baby!”_  

It is usually then that I wake alone in my bed, tears streaming down my face and the image of Peeta coddling the lost child burned forever behind my eyelids. 

Prim seeks me out after one such nightmare, eventually finding me in a supply closet tucked in the corner of a deserted hallway. She sighs with relief when she finds me curled up on the floor, arms wrapped tightly around my knees. 

I don’t say anything as my little sister enters the closet and folds herself on the floor to sit beside me, but Prim’s words burst like a ray of sunlight through my hazy mind. 

“I talked to Peeta.” 

I gape at her. “You- you’ve been in to see him?” I ask incredulously. 

“Well, he’s been making pretty good progress with Delly, so the doctors decided it was time to send someone a little closer to you in to see him. I’ve had a couple of meetings with him.” Seeing the look on my face, Prim rushes to explain. “I’m sorry for not telling you, Katniss. They didn’t want me to say anything to you right away, not after what happened…” I sit in shock, struggling to comprehend the information. 

“How is he?” I ask, not certain if I really want to hear the answer. 

“He’s still angry, but honestly right now I think he’s more hurt and confused than anything. The doctors have been testing a theory that they can try to hijack him back. You know, a reversal of what they did to him in the Capitol…” Prim trails off and pauses for a moment. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she says, abruptly changing the subject. Her voice is small and wounded, but I can’t quite fathom why. 

“What are you-”?

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Prim says again, more forcefully this time. “About any of it, Katniss? Peeta told me everything. The toasting, the baby, the _real_ reason you went to the Capitol all those times… you lied to me about all of it!” Fat tears are running down her cheeks and sudden wave of guilt washes over me. I’ve gotten so used to protecting Prim, sheltering her from everything bad in our lives that I’d missed it when she grew up. This past year has aged her. Primrose Everdeen is no longer the frail child that she once was. I see that now. 

“Prim, I… I’m so sorry. I didn’t do it to hurt you. I thought I was protecting you.” Prim wipes the angry tears from her eyes. 

“Katniss, I’m not a child anymore. You can tell me anything.” She gives me a look, inquiring me to explain. I take several deep breaths to quell my anxiety before beginning. 

“Snow blackmailed us into it. He threatened you and Mom and Peeta’s family if we didn’t comply. Did Peeta tell you that?”

Prim shakes her head. “Not in so many words.”

I look down at my hands, twisting them in my lap. “We did it to keep you safe. I didn’t want you or mom to ever find out, Prim. I don’t want you to blame yourself because it’s not your fault. “ Prim doesn’t say anything for a long time as we sit in contemplative silence.

“Thank you,” she whispers finally. 

“Prim, you don’t have to-“ 

“No, I mean it, Katniss. Thank you. I’ve never said that to you before, and after everything you’ve done for me since Dad died, you deserve to hear it.” 

My eyes, constantly on the verge of tears since I arrived in District 13, spill over with emotion as I pull my little sister into a tight hug. After a few moments, she murmurs into my shoulder, “What about the toasting and the baby?” I pull away and stroke Prim’s sweet face with my thumb.

“We didn’t know I was pregnant until we were on our way to the Quarter Quell.” 

“And the toasting?” Prim prompts. 

“I’m so sorry, Prim. Peeta and I wanted a toasting on our own terms. We did it before the Quell announcement and we decided not to tell anyone.” 

“So you really did it, then?”

I nod and Prim frowns. “I wondered if Peeta made that up for the audience and because of the baby.” 

“What’s wrong?” I ask, confused by the scowl on her face. Usually, that’s _my_ territory.

“Katniss, you _married_ Peeta. You made him a promise for life. It’s not fair for you to abandon him like you’ve been doing.” 

“But it wasn’t really an official marriage. We never signed anything…” I begin to protest, but I quail under the look Prim gives me.

“It doesn’t matter. You toasted bread with him, and that means something. You are Peeta’s wife. His whole family is dead. You’re all he has left. You can’t just cast him off because things are bad right now,” Prim says.

“But he-“ 

“I’m not saying you need to go in there and blindly forgive him for what he did and what he said, but you know in your heart that it wasn’t really _Peeta_ saying those things. He’s been asking for you, and I think it’s time for you to go and see him. It might just help him get better. It could even help with your nightmares if you get some closure, if anything.” 

I gape at my sister. Prim really is all grown up, not to mention she’s too smart for her own good. Shame wells within me when I think of the incredibly selfish way I’ve been acting since my arrival here in 13. Prim’s talk with me is a reminder that maybe not everything has been taken from me. Count your blessings, I suppose. I’m lucky that after everything, I still have my precious sister, and at the moment I have no counter argument to give her.  

She rises from her position on the floor. “Katniss, you have a choice to make. Either you can stay here in this closet and wallow in misery, or you can get out there and reestablish a connection with the man you married. You committed yourself to Peeta and he deserves better.”

With that, Prim sweeps from the closet, leaving me to my very confused thoughts.

 

*****

 

The first things I notice upon entering the bleak hospital room are the thick cuffs binding his forearms and ankles to the bedrails. I can only assume that this is a precaution to prevent a repeat of what happened the last time we were together. The next things to catch my attention are his eyes. They’re no longer clear and gentle as they used to be; yet they’re also devoid of the hatred and anger that was so dominant the last time I’d been in his presence. Purple circles ring his bloodshot eyes, his skin dull and sallow in the florescent lighting.

He looks terrible, but I have to remind myself that at least he’s here and alive and no longer shouting insane ramblings and obscenities at me. Baby steps.

He’s sitting up in bed waiting for me. I hover in the doorway at first as we stare at each other, unsure what my next move should be. Neither of us says anything. Absurdly, I’m taken back to the first time I brought him a squirrel in his kitchen and our subsequent attempts at awkward conversation. The memory forces the corners of my mouth to twitch upward. 

It’s the closest I’ve come to smiling in months. Even after being tortured into insanity, Peeta is still the only person who can make me feel good again, even if the almost- smile his presence coaxed from me is a mere shadow of my former self.  

Still, it’s something. 

The overwhelming urge to move toward him, to touch any part of him- just to have some small bit of my boy with the bread back- sweeps over me. I don’t resist it. 

Peeta shrinks back ever so slightly into his pillow as I take my first tentative step towards him. The sight of him shrinking back in fear of me makes me want to cry and flee from the room like I did last time, but my feet insist on pulling me forward. 

It seems to take forever to get to his bedside, but when I reach him at last, I extend my hand slowly toward his, imploring him to understand my intentions. I’m not sure if he does, but the cuff binding his wrist to the bedrail prevents him from jerking his own hand away, and I watch as if in slow motion as I entwine my left hand with his.

The monitor beside his bed begins beeping rapidly in response to his pounding heartbeat. His cloudy, bewildered eyes search mine for an explanation, but my tongue feels thick and dry in my mouth. I couldn’t speak if wanted to.

Suddenly his eyes widen in realization; his fingers tighten around mine. “It means _I love you,_ ” he whispers. 

At long last, I feel hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First let me apologize for the wait on this chapter. I struggled a bit with this one because I don’t want to get too repetitive and rewrite the events of Mockingjay, so this is my way of summarizing it so that I can get where I need to be. The next few chapters will deviate further from canon. 
> 
> I toyed with the idea of having Peeta return un-hijacked, but it’s such an important aspect of his narrative and his growth as a character that I felt the need to leave it in. However, I feel like he may have recovered a bit more quickly if Katniss had put effort into helping him earlier than she did, so I had Prim kick her ass a little bit in that respect. Hopefully this chapter makes it clear that this is very much a character- driven story, so I’m not focusing as much on the war as the books did. 
> 
> Remember that behind every fan fiction is a nervous writer dying to hear your thoughts! We thrive on feedback, so please leave a comment for me here or find me on tumblr: everlarkstoastbabies
> 
> Until next time, thank you for reading! xoxo


	10. Part 9

The heavy metal door gives a loud, groaning squeak when I pull it ever so carefully open. My head snaps around to glance up and down the deserted hallway of the education center, certain that someone heard the noise and I am about to be caught, but no one appears. Breathing a sigh of relief, I slip into the supply closet, ready to complete my mission and get away quickly. 

Eyes roving the fully stocked shelves, they finally land on my bounty. I pull a notepad of thin, grayish paper, a pack of graphite pencils, and a box of crayons- usually reserved for the younger schoolchildren- off the shelves. 

What I’m doing is practically treason here in 13. Stealing an _entire notepad_ after all, is a serious offense, probably punishable by death or something. My entire haul could probably keep a whole classroom going for a month; they’re so conservative around here. 

Nevertheless, I stuff the lot under my shirt and walk briskly out of the closet, making sure the door is firmly shut behind me before heading in the direction of the hospital. 

I’ve gone back to see Peeta as often as possible after that first visit. My schedule now includes _Hospital Rm. 407- P.M._ in slowly increasing frequencies, and despite ignoring the words on my arm the majority of the time up until now, this is one activity in which I’m very willing to partake. 

Routines and repetition. This is what the doctors tell me will help Peeta. I’m not permitted to come every day because they fear that would be too overwhelming for him, but by coming at the same time each week, we are slowly building back the trust that was lost with his hijacking. 

Sometimes we sit in near silence because our conversations can too easily veer into dangerous territory and trigger Peeta’s flashbacks. Occasionally he’ll ask me questions and I do my best to fill in the blanks in his memories, but usually I stay with him as we watch hours of video footage together, reliving our first Games, the Victory Tour, and the Quarter Quell. 

To my humiliation, I was also told that Thirteen’s doctors had the footage from our sexual sessions in the Capitol. Through the infuriated blush on my face, I told them in no uncertain terms that neither Peeta nor I ever wish to see them again. I demanded that they be discarded immediately. At their adamant refusal, I appealed to Haymitch, who raised an almighty hell until every last tape of those sessions was properly destroyed. I’m not foolish enough to believe those were the only copies in Panem, but it makes me feel infinitely better knowing there are no more in District 13.

After the tapes that we do watch, the doctors always return with their white coats and clipboards to assess Peeta’s progress. Sometimes they bring long lists of questions for him to answer, for which I am not allowed to remain in the room. However, an occasional doctor will let slip a little something of his progress to me.

_He’s still prone to outbursts, but his violent tendencies seem to be abating._

_He was finally allowed to feed himself today!_

_We think he’ll be stable enough to function without the permanent morphling drip soon._  

Every time I get a scrap of positive information such as this, I allow myself to hope a little more. That Peeta will recover back to his old self. That just maybe we can get back to something resembling normal, whatever that means for us. 

In any case, his progress can only mean good things.

When I reach Peeta’s hospital door today, I knock five times upon it to let him know it’s me. His eyes are slightly narrowed in suspicion when I enter the room with the supplies hidden behind my back. I’m used to this expression by now. This is how he always looks at me when I come to see him. It’s almost like we have to start over each time I come, but not completely. With every week that passes, his guard comes down a little bit faster. He’s learning to trust me, I think. 

“I brought something for you today,” I tell him. 

His guarded expression does not falter. “What is it?” 

For all Peeta’s improvement, the one thing that doesn’t seem to have changed is the state of his hands. I can’t help but notice them every time I come. They are always moving, perpetually twitching or twisting in the cuffs that bind him to the bed whenever I’m in his presence. It is still not safe for him to be unrestrained while I’m here. Even now as I stand in the doorway, his fingers are tapping in an erratic beat against his bed rails. 

Last time I saw him, I asked if there was anything I could do for his restless hands. 

“You make me nervous,” he told me. “And conflicted… And I don’t know how to react to you, I guess, so I have to fight to keep control and my hands twitch. I can’t help it.” 

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“I just wish I could paint again,” Peeta said with a reluctant sigh. “I remember how that always kept me grounded before. I used to spend hours doing it, sometimes all day and night when I couldn’t sleep. It helped to paint my thoughts.”

Alas, there are no paints, pastel oils, charcoals, (or anything with any artistic integrity whatsoever) to be found in this underground prison, but if Peeta needs to express himself through art to clear his head, then I’ll be damned if I let that stop him. Having spent a fair amount of time in the storage closets here, I know exactly where to find the choicest school supplies. Waxy crayons, gritty pencils, and grainy paper are the best I can do for now. 

In answer to Peeta’s question, I pull out the supplies. His face instantly drops its hard suspicion and lights up so that he’s positively glowing. In that split second, he looks like the hijacking never even happened. 

“Oh, Katniss,” he breathes. “Thank you so much.” 

“I’m sorry, they don’t have paint here and the paper’s not that good…” 

“No, it’s perfect. Really, thank you.” The smile he gives me isn’t quite as broad as his old one, but it sends a familiar rush of warmth through me all the same. 

“You’re welcome.” I smile too. 

“Actually, you brought that stuff at the perfect time,” Peeta says. “Finnick and Annie just came to see me. They want me to design their wedding cake.”

“Really, Peeta?” He nods, a proud grin on his face. “That’s wonderful.” I smile warmly back at him.

“I want to do something really special for them,” he says.

“They deserve it,” I agree. 

“But the wedding is in two weeks.” Peeta frowns. “That’s not a lot of time to plan.” 

“Well then,” I say, placing the sketchpad in his lap, “You better get started.“

 

*****

 

The wedding goes off without a hitch two weeks later. I haven’t seen much of Finnick and Annie ever since she was rescued along with Peeta and Johanna because I’ve been focused on helping Peeta recover, but it is nice to see them so incredibly happy and in love. 

Still, my heart aches with longing as Finnick twirls his bride around on the dance floor. Both of them are blissfully giddy, their joy practically radiating in visible waves around them. It is incredibly obvious that to them, they are the only two people in the room. I can’t help but feel a pang of envy as I watch them together, not for Finnick and Annie, but for their certainty. No one seeing them could doubt their love, least of all themselves. 

Part of me can’t help but wonder if that is how Peeta would have danced with me at our wedding. I’m sure he would have. Probably not nearly as gracefully as Finnick and Annie, who seem to float on air through the tightly packed crowd, but I don’t think I would have minded. 

My jaw drops in shock when Peeta’s wedding cake is wheeled into the room at last. He kept his designs for it strictly under wraps; he didn’t let me so much as peek at his drawings, so the finished product takes me entirely by surprise. 

I’m completely in awe. This cake is unparalleled to anything he’s ever created before. I’ve never seen such a thing of beauty: not in the bakery windows back in 12, and not even at the Capitol parties on the Victory Tour. Nothing like the decadent four- tiered creation of delicate water flowers and miniature sea creatures and fluffy icing made to look like foam- tipped waves that stands before me. 

The crowd gathers around Peeta’s cake, most of them gazing at in wonderment just like me. I bet most of these people- from Districts 12 and 13 alike- have never tasted a delicacy like cake before in their lives. It’s a shame that we’ll have to ruin the cake to enjoy it. It’s as much a feast for the eyes as it is for the pallet. 

I think of Peeta’s hands again, restless and twisting in his cuffs. Picture them clutching a piping bag, frosting the cake with the same concentration in his eyes as when he worked on my family’s plant book with me. The image does not add up. How could those shaky hands have created the perfection that stands before me? They simply couldn’t have. Only the steadiest of practiced hands could have made that cake. 

I can’t repress the hope that soars within me at the realization that this is Peeta’s biggest sign of improvement yet.

Peeta himself stands with his masterpiece, taking in all the attention and beaming with pride at the favorable reaction to his hard work. He was permitted to attend the wedding tonight on the condition that he has a chaperone to ensure that the situation does not get out of hand. Haymitch, our eternal mentor, was delegated to this task. Without a drink in his hand he’s proven quite competent in this role, keeping a close watch on him all evening.

I’ve been cautious around Peeta tonight in such a social atmosphere, preferring to spend my dance time on the floor so far with Prim instead. After the cake has been cut and distributed to the eager party guests, I go in search of her again, only to find her dancing to a slow song in Rory Hawthorne’s awkward embrace, each of them looking resolutely away from the other with furiously pink blushes on their cheeks. 

 _Hmm_. I’ll have to keep a better watch on that situation. Prim may have proven to me that she’s grown up practically overnight, but she’s still too young to be dating. 

“Katniss!” I jump as someone calls my name from behind. I turn on the spot to find that it’s Plutarch. “Such a lovely wedding,” he says, not waiting for me to return the greeting. “This footage will make for some wonderful propos. I’m sure they’ll do their job to cheer up the citizens and show President Snow that the rebels are thriving!” 

“Definitely,” I agree half- heartedly. I have a feeling I know where he’s going with this. 

“Those in the Districts would love to see some star- crossed lovers’ action,” he hedges. “You know, show them that you and Peeta are stronger than ever.” 

“I don’t think that’s…” I say, but it doesn’t matter, because then Plutarch sweeps out an arm and pulls Peeta out of thin air. 

“Just a quick one,” he insists, bustling away so that he’s out of the camera shot. 

“What was that about?” Peeta asks, baffled. 

“He, uh, wants us to dance. For the propos,” I say. Peeta’s brows furrow and he looks unsure, but after a moment of indecision, he composes himself. In an instant, his on- camera persona is in place. It must be such an inherent part of him that the act comes naturally when it is demanded of him. The smooth face, wiped free of all emotion but for a polite contentment. The straight posture- shoulders back, chest out, and chin thrust high into the air. 

“Well if the propos demand it,” he says genially, holding out an arm to me. I hesitate to take it, irritated that we’ve been pushed into this situation when I’ve been working so diligently to go as slow as Peeta needs to recover. I don’t want this to ruin all the progress we’ve made. 

In the end I take the arm he offers for one reason only- to show President Snow that he has not won. It doesn’t matter how hard he tried because he didn’t manage to steal Peeta entirely away from me. And that is worth the risk. 

Peeta leads me to a quiet corner of the dance floor, removed from the center of all the activity. Despite his outwardly calm demeanor, his hands tremble again when he reaches for my waist and when I place mine gently around his neck, I can feel a light sheen of sweat there.

The hair at his nape is longer than it used to be. I’ve noticed lately that it flops into his eyes when it’s not gelled back like it is now. He’ll need a haircut soon, but I doubt he’ll favor sporting the military buzz cut that’s so popular here.

Both of us seem to have forgotten the steps to all those Capitol dances that Effie tried to teach us, so we move in small, tight circles on the dance floor, barely clearing a square foot of floor space. I keep my eyes trained on the pulse jumping rapidly in his neck for the majority of our stiff dance. His hands tremble worse than ever on my waist and his tongue darts out to lick his full lips almost subconsciously. 

The song is nearly at an end when my gaze meets his at last, his blue eyes burning into mine. My feet stop moving in their tiny circle as Peeta’s eyes hold me frozen, entirely captivated in their depths. 

The world slows almost to a dead stop. The cameras and dancing couples around us are nothing more than a dull gray blur. There is only Peeta and me on our own tiny island. My bounding heart and his shallow breathing are the only sounds in my ears. Without a second though to what I’m doing, or to the lasting effect my actions will have, I stretch up onto my tiptoes, leaning ever so slightly forward…. 

Suddenly the song ends and the band begins a much more lively number. The moment shatters. 

Peeta rips his hands away from me immediately, breathing hard, pupils dilated so large that his eyes appear black in the harsh florescent lighting. He balls his hands into stiff fists at his sides and crosses the room in several long strides. Haymitch, with an impressive amount agility, streaks past me and after Peeta into the hallway. 

I stay where I am on the dance floor, arms wrapped tightly around myself while the other couples continue to twirl obliviously around me. 

Despite the abrupt ending to our dance, Plutarch is relatively satisfied with the footage he managed to get. I couldn’t care less, but the former Gamemaker remains stubbornly ignorant to my indifference. I bid him a hasty goodnight, and after informing Prim that I’m leaving, I make my way to my solitary room and climb into bed.

 

*****

 

Haymitch tells me the next day that he managed to calm Peeta before his flashback turned too violent. Still, the knowledge that I pushed him to that makes me sick to my stomach. It’s like we’re moving backwards, and even worse, this time I know it’s my fault. I’m the one who foolishly tried to kiss him, after all.

I’m not scheduled to see Peeta again until later that day, and when the time comes, I consider not going for the first time in weeks. Then I think of the tentative trust we’ve built so far, how just one missed appointment could destroy the progress we’ve worked so hard to regain, so I decide to suck it up and go. Still, it is with more than a little trepidation that proceed to Peeta’s hospital room. 

“Hey.” I poke my head in Peeta’s doorway after my cursory five knocks. 

“Hi,” he says softly. Purple circles ring his eyes and his need of a haircut is more evident than ever, the blond strands on his head sticking up in all directions. His cheeks look a bit hollow, but absent in the expression of mistrust or even hatred that I’d fully expected to see on his face. He looks more exhausted than anything. 

“How are you feeling?” I ask, chancing a step into the room. 

Peeta shrugs. “Okay, I guess. Once I calmed down I felt almost back to normal. Just really tired.” 

“Oh. Do you want me to be here today then? I could go…” I say, hoping that he won’t take me up on the offer, but if that is what he really needs then I won’t hesitate to comply. 

He considers this, but after a beat of hesitation he says, “No, that’s okay. You can stay.” 

I‘m not entirely convinced by his answer but I’m glad that he wants me here in any case, so I settle into my usual chair near his bedside. “So what’s on the agenda for today?” 

“More Quell footage,” a male voice says from the doorway. Dr. Aurelius, one of Peeta’s lead physicians, enters the room and heads straight for the television screen across from the bed.

 While he fumbles with the tape of the day, a nurse arrives with a syringe in hand. Peeta receives a calming drug in varying doses during the footage that we watch, but his limbs always remain chained to the bed, just in case.

The screen flickers to life, paused where we left off last time. Right after we had figured out the arena was a clock. 

It has been a surreal experience watching this footage as an outsider. It almost seems like it wasn’t real at times. But then I feel my scars, clench the pearl that lives in my pocket, feel the gaping loss in my heart, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that it was real. 

“I’ll be back when it’s finished,” the doctor says, and the footage begins. 

Our group of allies has walked up to the cornucopia to get our bearings and replenish our supply of weapons when things take a turn for the worse. 

Gloss kills Wiress and Johanna takes out Cashmere with her axe. I cringe when I kill Gloss on camera. A perfectly placed arrow right in his brain, and not a flicker of remorse in my steely eyes when the camera zooms in close on my face. 

Everything in me hopes this won’t trigger another venom- induced flashback from Peeta. Because here it is. Yet more proof that I’m a cold- hearted killer. But when I slide my eyes over to him, his face is neutral and completely unreadable. It may just be the influence of the morphling, but I decide to take this as a good sign. 

We watch for several more minutes, during which the cornucopia spins out from underneath us and we struggle to right ourselves before we head to the jabberjay sector. Once we reach it, my allies begin to make camp while the camera leers at me as I vomit into the bushes at the edge of the jungle. 

This time we have the benefit of Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith’s inane commentary in the background. They gush over _what a considerate boy Peeta is_ and _how lucky Katniss is to have him there for her_ as he holds my hair away from my face and rubs my back soothingly. 

 _Funny_ , I think darkly, _how that annoyed me at the time._  

Funny how I took Peeta’s genuine concern for me as suffocating and irritating, like an irksome fly that wouldn’t stop buzzing around, and now I’d give anything to have that Peeta back. I bring my knees up to my chest and hug them tightly to me. _Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry._ I’ve done well so far, managed to keep the tears at bay through all of the footage we’ve seen these past few weeks, but I know that what comes next might push me over the edge. 

Peeta and I argue on the screen while the others hang back, watching us with great amusement. Eventually, Peeta wins the argument and I stalk into the trees to hunt with him in tow. It is at this point that I have to look away from the visual, tucking my face into my knees. I can’t relive that, not again. The scene still comes to me in my nightmares, as horrifyingly vivid as ever, and I have no wish to watch the real thing. Living through it once was more than enough.

But I can still hear it. 

The first infant cries out through the trees and with my eyes closed it’s almost like I’m back there again. I can see it clear as day; every detail- from the green canopy of leaves overhead to the stifling humid air pressing in all around me- is razor sharp behind my eyelids. Only the smell of antiseptic and the absence of the spongy jungle floor in favor of the plastic chair beneath me serve as reminders that I am in the hospital and not the arena. 

After we escape the agonized screaming in the jungle, there isn’t much to listen to but for my labored whimpers and Peeta’s unintelligible stream of comforting words as we stand in the ocean together. At this point, one of my hands unravels itself from around my knees to reach automatically for Peeta’s hand. His fingers clutch mine as best he can in his cuff, and we keep a tight hold on each other as the scene unfolds. 

I’m relieved to find that the audio recorders had not been able to discern much of what he says to me on the screen. It is a small comfort knowing that at least those exchanges are mine alone. I had also been correct in thinking that the Gamemakers focused almost exclusively on the two of us throughout the entire ordeal. The footage drags on almost as long as it had in real life, only cutting away for mere seconds to show the status of the other remaining tributes. The tape ends with me curling up in Peeta’s arms on the beach and falling into a fitful sleep for the night.

The screen fades to fuzzy static, and Peeta slowly turns his face toward me. For the first time since beginning the video, our eyes meet.                                                                                              

“It really wasn’t your fault,” he breathes, gazing imploringly at me. “Oh, Katniss… I’m so sorry.” Unshed tears glimmer in his eyes, and in this moment he looks just like the boy who stood terrified on the reaping stage for the very first time. The boy whose name had just been pulled from thousands, who knew already that the odds were not at all in his favor. 

I reach for him just as his tears fall, wiping them gently from his cheeks, his features becoming increasingly blurry thanks to the tears clouding my own vision. They spill over as I close my eyes and lean in close to Peeta… closer… closer. Unlike last time, he does not pull away from me. He holds perfectly still- out of shock or fear, I don’t know- so that I can feel his shallow breath on my face, our lips just millimeters apart… 

“Ahem.” The cough sounds from behind us and in an instant I tear my face away from Peeta’s. His eyes are dilated, his chest rising and falling rapidly. It must have been the monitor next to the bed beeping with his increasing heart rate that summoned Dr. Aurelius to the room, who at the moment is eying us disapprovingly over the top of his clipboard. “It’s time for Mr. Mellark’s daily assessment, if you don’t mind, Miss Everdeen,” he says sternly. 

I reluctantly stand and make to leave the room, but Peeta speaks up from behind me just before I reach the door.

“Can she stay this time?” 

The doctor looks as though he highly disapproves of this idea, but Peeta presses on, “Please? I’d really like her to be here today.” 

Dr. Aurelius still does not look like he thinks much of this, but relents all the same. “Very well. Miss Everdeen, you may stay as long as you do not interfere with any of Peeta’s answers.” I feel a twinge of annoyance at his condescending manner, but nod fervently all the same, taking my seat next to Peeta’s bed opposite the doctor. Once I’m settled, he jumps right into the questionnaire of the day. 

“Now Peeta, you have just witnessed an especially traumatic event from your life. Can you give me your thoughts after watching that?”

Peeta squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath in preparation to answer. “I was confused at first because the video they showed me in the Capitol was… different than what I just saw.” 

“How so?” Dr. Aurelius prompts, scribbling on his clipboard. 

“Well, the other footage was… more graphic. She… Katniss did it on purpose and then she laughed. A lot. She told me she never wanted my baby… she said that she never wanted _me_.” At this he glances toward me, the pain clear on his face. “But somehow I don’t think that could be real.”

“And you can accept that what you saw today is the truth?” the doctor presses. 

“Yes.” 

“Up until last week, you were still struggling to accept the fact that the footage we’ve been showing you has not been altered. What makes today different?” 

Another quick look to me, and Peeta replies, “Because Katniss didn’t laugh today. Not even a little bit. She couldn’t even watch it happen. I don’t think she would have reacted that way if she never wanted the baby or me. And… and then I remembered. I _remembered_ what I was saying to her, even though we couldn’t hear it on the screen. That’s how I know it was real.” 

My heart nearly shatters at his answer, honest and broken as it is. And then I think of the first thing he said to me after seeing the tape today- _it really wasn’t your fault._ The same thing he’d whispered to me relentlessly in the arena. 

“How do you feel now that you can remember the event? Did any other memories surface as well?” Dr. Aurelius asks.

“No, it’s just… overwhelming, I guess. It’s a lot to take in. But I’m glad it’s happening.” 

The doctor scribbles something else on the clipboard before speaking again. “Your heart rate rose during the viewing and you exhibited a high amount stress, despite the dose of morphling in your system. Did you feel any violent tendencies toward Katniss while you watched the tape?" 

Peeta slowly shakes his head. “No… I was almost wishing that my hands weren’t bound so that I could hold her, like I did in the arena. I wanted to make her feel better.” There’s a blush creeping into his cheeks as he says this, but my heart soars. This is the most progress I’ve seen from him yet. The anger is gradually ebbing away and _Peeta_ is beginning to resurface. He’s coming back to me. I reach for his hand to give it a reassuring squeeze, and we share a timid smile. 

The doctor looks back and forth between us, and seeming to realize that he won’t be getting much more from Peeta at the moment, he says, “Well, I think we can leave it there for today. Miss Everdeen, you may stay a little longer, if you wish.”

“It’s Mellark, actually. Peeta and I are married. My name is Katniss Mellark,” I say. 

Dr. Aurelius raises his eyebrows, inclining his head toward us. I think I might even see the shadow of a smile upon his lips. 

“Very well. I’ll leave you to your husband, Mrs. Mellark.” He turns to leave, but hesitates when he reaches the door. After a moment, he reaches into his pocket and shuffles back over to me, placing a small, metal object in my hand before bowing out of the room, leaving us alone again. Grinning when I see what it is, I rush to Peeta’s side and slip the key into the cuffs on the bed. 

As soon as both his wrists are free, he embraces me in a tight hug. I bury my face in his neck and breath in the smell of him. Cinnamon and fresh bread as always, even under the smell of the standard issue District 13 soap. We are so close that I can feel his heart beating in the confines of his warm chest. _Oh, how I’ve missed this._ I don’t know how long we sit in the cramped hospital bed wrapped around each other, but it feels like I could stay here with him like this forever and it still would not be enough time. 

Finally, I murmur into his shoulder, “Was that okay? That I took your name? We never really talked about it before…” 

Peeta pulls gently away, his eyebrows slightly scrunched in the middle. He traces his fingers over my face, stroking my cheeks and lips and nose over and over again, as though to memorize every scar and freckle, but he doesn’t say anything. 

I panic a little, suddenly positive that I did the wrong thing. “Your family is all gone and I _hate_ that they were taken from you,” I try to clarify. “But I want you to know that, um, that I’m your family. That _we_ are a family… if you want us to be.”

He nods solemnly, tears glistening in his eyes again. “Yes,” he says finally, voice choked with emotion. “Yes, it’s okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated at length on whether it would be out of character for Katniss to take Peeta’s name. Eventually I decided that in this scenario, she would see it as a gesture of her devotion to him and as a fresh start for them as a real family. Besides, “Katniss Mellark” has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? 
> 
> Also, I brought Aurelius to 13, even though I’m fairly certain he’s a Capitol doctor. He is the one who helps Katniss and Peeta get better after all. 
> 
> I’m really (like super duper) excited for what the next chapter will bring, so stay tuned! 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! xoxo


	11. Part 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of medical jargon in this chapter. Some of it is factual; most of it is entirely fictional. Take it all with a heaping spoonful of salt.

Building back Peeta’s memories proves to be an arduous, time- consuming task. The days we spend together in his tiny hospital room fly by in a blur of conversations about nothing and everything, accompanied occasional bursts of both laughter and tears. We work diligently together to sort through his clouded memories, revisiting not only the past year and a half of our lives since our fates crossed on that fateful reaping day, but our childhoods as well.

The more we talk, the more I feel that pull towards him, the achingly primal hunger that has absolutely nothing to do with food. I often find little reasons to touch him- brushing a stray eyelash from his cheek or nudging his leg with my own- but I do not try to kiss him again. I’m not willing to jeopardize what we have gained by moving too quickly. 

It turns out that Prim was right. Focusing on Peeta’s recovery has benefitted me so much that I have been officially cleared to move out of the _mentally disoriented_ wing of the hospital and into Compartment 307 with my family.

When he heard this news, Peeta smiled and congratulated me, but his enthusiasm did nothing to cover his jealousy for my improved situation. After his protracted stay underground, he is positively itching to be freed from his hospital room, too. Dr. Aurelius has promised to recommend that he be allowed to join me and the other soldiers in training a couple of times per week. Once the Board clears the request, he will be permitted into the fresh air for the first time in months. For his sake I hope they move quickly. Just being allowed above ground and breathing in fresh air was a huge comfort to me in my point of deepest depression. 

The approval can’t come soon enough for Peeta, whose pale skin has acquired a chalky, sallow look in its long deprivation of sunlight. He is also significantly thinner than he was before the Quarter Quell. Much of the bulky muscle mass he acquired during our training was lost to starvation in the arena and then to his torture in the Capitol. His slow recovery here has not allowed for much physical activity, so getting back into training will be good for him. With time, I’m even hoping the Board will allow us to go out into the woods together. Not to hunt, but to get away from this place for a while, just the two of us. 

But until 13’s officials have decided whether it is safe to allow Peeta out in the open again, we are stuck in the hospital. The one small improvement is that he’s permitted to be un-cuffed full time now, provided a nurse is on call and ready to deliver a knockout dose of morphling into his bloodstream if things should get out of hand. 

Mostly we sit together and talk, playing various rounds of _Real or Not Real_ to help Peeta tell the truth from the lies fed to him under the influence of tracker jacker venom while he makes use of the contraband items I stole for him. 

Soon the grayish notepad is filled with portraits of his entire family. “I don’t want to forget them,” he tells me. “I’m afraid if I don’t draw them now, a day will come when I can’t remember their faces.” I know how he feels. As I’ve grown older, I have found it increasingly difficult to remember certain details about my father. His voice, his smell, and most of all, his face. The different expressions when he hunted or came home from the mines or kissed my mother and hugged Prim and me. Those things have a tendency to fade away over time, and I can’t fault Peeta for his proclivity to cling to them. Apparently this desire extends even to his mother, although her portrait has a stiff, cold quality to it, lacking the warmth and passion that exudes from those of his father and brothers.

My face is not absent from the sketchbook, either. From what I gather, I am still a frequent fixture in his nightmares, and on occasion he will show me a scene he’s drawn in the middle of the night, but he keeps most of those to himself. One time he actually asked me to pose for him. (“I want to draw you as you are, not how you appear in my nightmares.”) The resulting portrait was different than any he has done of me in the past. The crease between my eyes, the scowl on my lips, and the lingering scar on my cheek from the Quell were all glaringly present, and yet that drawing is somehow better than all the rest. It feels the most authentic. 

Today Peeta is working on a pair of hands with its knuckles deep in dough. They are large and pale and a long scar runs down the length of one wrist (I assume this to be a burn from the bakery ovens), and most likely belongs to his father, or maybe one of his brothers. I don’t get the chance to ask because he suddenly stops shading the picture to meet my gaze. 

“We’ve done this before, real or not real?” 

“Real,” I tell him. “We spent a lot of time working on my family plant book at your house.”

His lips curve into a reminiscent smile. “Yeah, I remember some of that. You’re picky about your drawings.”

“Well, I had to make sure you got them right! An extra leaf on a plant or something could get our future descendants killed,” I retort teasingly. I neglect to add that there were many times when I kept him sketching just so I could observe him longer. When he first started drawing again, I was pleased to find that the same tiny crinkle still appears between his eyes when he’s concentrating hard, and his tongue still pokes every so slightly out of his mouth when he’s displeased with his work. Those little quirks, at least, have gone unchanged.

If Peeta notices the sudden rush of heat to my face at this memory, he doesn’t say anything. He seems too intent on something else on his mind to notice, casting a frown at the picture he’s drawn. His head snaps up to look at me again, all traces of teasing gone from his face. 

“You regret having sex with me on the beach in the arena, real or not real?” 

My mouth goes dry. Of course I knew this discussion would come eventually, I just did not expect that it would catch me so off guard.   

The night we let go of our inhibitions and made love in the arena was the last piece of footage we watched, and the only one we saw out of order from the rest. To say that it was difficult to watch would be an understatement of epic proportions. 

Once again the cameras had lingered on us during the entire exchange, unwilling to miss a single shining moment. The tender kiss that evolved into something animalistic and unstoppable. Peeta’s feeble attempts at resistance melting away under my insistent touch. Him rolling me over in the sand, taking charge, and eliciting between us the best pleasure of our lives. 

As we watched the scene play out, my entire body felt like it was on fire with a bizarre mixture of humiliation and an odd buzzing between my legs. I could not so much as glance in Peeta’s direction the entire time it was on the screen. Afterwards, he lost the ability to speak for several hours. _He’s in shock_ , the doctors told me. For a while they were worried it was a setback that might be detrimental to his recovery, but Peeta eventually agreed to speak to Dr. Aurelius about it. 

I was not present for that conversation, not even behind the glass in the observation area. The doctor told me afterward to let him bring it up to me when he was ready. Hence, we’ve been tip- toeing around the subject for almost a week. Until now, that is. 

The room is uncomfortably silent for a long time as we hold each other’s gaze, Peeta sizing me up, and me trying to find the right words to answer his question. 

“Not real,” I finally say in a choked whisper, reaching automatically for his hand to lace my fingers with his. _It means I love you_. Peeta knows this and I hope it is enough to convey the feelings that I can’t put into words. Rather than looking reassured, however, he narrows his eyes in suspicion. 

“Why?” 

Why? Because… it was what we both wanted- _needed-_ to do at the time. Peeta and I both. And no matter how embarrassing it is to know that the entire country saw it, that our families saw it … I have not been able to regret doing it after all this time.

Because nothing on the outside matters anymore when you’re thrust into the arena. Not friends or family or anyone else. Your whole world condenses down to that hellish dome and the people in it, most of whom are out for your blood. 

Because it was our last chance to be together. 

Because I love him. 

“Because…” 

Suddenly there’s a soft knock on the door of his hospital room. Both of us jump at the unexpected intrusion as my mother enters.   

“Katniss? They’re asking for you,” she says. 

Who _they_ are and what _they_ want I have no idea. It’s probably just Plutarch again with another one of his Mockingjay meetings. There is nothing of the sort inked into the schedule on my am, but I know that he has been kept informed of Peeta’s progress, including the fact that he can now stand to be in the same room with me for extended periods without succumbing to a venom- induced rage. Our propo from Finnick and Annie’s wedding was a huge success and the general public is clamoring to know more about us. It was only a matter of time until the former Gamemaker pounced on the many fresh advertisement opportunities our circumstances have to offer. 

“Can it wait?” I snap at her, thoroughly irritated. Peeta and I were having a moment. 

Mom shakes her head. “I’m sorry, no. It’s urgent,” she says. 

Reluctantly, I turn back to Peeta. “Look, I’ll try not to be too long,” I tell him. “I’ll come back as soon as I’m done and then we’ll talk. Promise.” His eyes search my face for any sign of a lie before he gives a short nod. I give his hand one more reassuring squeeze before reluctantly following Mom out of the room. 

To my surprise, she leads me not toward Command, but in the opposite direction, deeper into the medical ward. We walk in silence down a maze of twisting hallways until she opens the door to small and unassuming room, beckoning me inside. 

Like everywhere else in 13, this room is very bare- boned and sterile, the only furniture being a stainless steel table and 5 straight- backed chairs. Three of them are already occupied. Based on their white uniforms and medical insignias, I recognize two of the occupants- a male and a female- to be doctors, though their faces are not distinguishable among the scores of medical professionals I have met here. Haymitch sits in the third chair for some reason. Across the room is a door with a tiny window marked _Incubation_ , although I can’t see what lies inside.

Something tells me this is not a typical Mockingjay meeting. 

“Hi, Katniss. Please have a seat, ” says the female doctor. She’s blond with a kind face and soft blue eyes. I’d guess her to be in her mid- forties. 

“This is Dr. Collins,” Mom says, indicating the woman who just greeted me, “And this is Dr. Hart.” She points next to the man. Older, with a salt- and- pepper beard and receding hairline. “Both were part of the team of doctors that assisted in your recovery after the arena, remember?” 

I nod my head, even though I don’t remember. Dr. Collins gestures to Haymitch and my mother. “We have a few things to discuss with you, Katniss. We thought it would be nice for you to have some familiar faces here. For moral support,” she clarifies, perhaps noting the blatant confusion on my face. Her smile is non- threatening, but her words send sharp streaks of panic lancing through my chest anyway. My heart rate skyrockets, pounding a violent tattoo against my ribcage. What could they possibly have to tell me that requires moral support? 

“What’s going on? Is this about Peeta?” I blurt. “Is something else wrong with him? Is he-“ 

“No, no, nothing like that,” Dr. Collins says. “Dr. Hart and I are fertility and obstetric specialists.” 

“When you were rescued from the arena, you were given a full medical exam. There was some concern amongst our colleagues that after your miscarriage, you might not be able to conceive children again in the future.” Heat rushes to my face and I know that I am glowing red. Why the hell is Haymitch here for this? “You’ll be happy to know that’s not the case,” the doctor says kindly. 

I shrug my shoulders, but give no response otherwise. I don’t know what kind of reaction they were hoping to get from me, but they needn’t have bothered. I am never having children. Very few things in my life are filled with absolute certainty, but that is one thing I know for sure. Last time I was a fool and let myself hope. That will not happen again. My heart can’t take that kind of pain twice. 

“During the exam we found the bacteria in your bloodstream that caused the miscarriage and weakened your immune system, but only in trace amounts. It seems that you did not ingest enough of the stuff to cause more pronounced symptoms.” 

“I know that,” I interrupt. Haymitch already told me the poison was in the food on board the hovercraft before the Quell began. I vaguely remember taking a mouthful or two of the lumpy, tasteless stew that was all I could manage to eat in my nervous state. I had vomited it back up just moments after it slid down my throat… after Cinna was tortured in front of me. 

Dr. Collins continues, “Right. Well, we also discovered that the embryo had not been expelled from your womb when the initial bleeding occurred. Before we could attempt to perform the procedure necessary to remove it, our monitors detected a heartbeat. Two heartbeats, in fact.” 

I freeze in my seat; unable to move a muscle while my heart starts pumping a million miles a minute. 

“One, of course, was yours. The other… was the baby’s. Erratic, very feeble, but it was there,” says Dc. Collins. 

“What are you saying?” I croak, my voice barely audible. A heartbeat? Does that mean my baby was still alive when I left the arena? 

“Katniss, have you ever heard of an artificial gestation period?” Dr. Hart asks me, speaking up for the first time. 

“No.” 

“Well if you’ll just humor us for a few minutes and allow us to explain,” he says, and I nod slowly. “Artificial gestation is a highly advanced medical procedure that originated in the Capitol, though it has been adapted for use here in Thirteen for entirely different reasons.” 

“What does that mean?” I ask, entirely confused. 

“A regular period of human gestation- that is, the amount of time it takes for a baby to fully develop in the womb- is approximately 40 weeks. That is the norm in the districts, but over the years it has become very rare for a woman living in the Capitol to carry a baby to term once she becomes pregnant. Most women prefer to skip the side effects of pregnancy- weight gain, mood swings, pain, and general discomfort- so they take alternative measures. Typically, this is done more out of vanity than medical necessity.” 

They’re losing me. My concussion still leaves many of my thoughts scrambled in my mind, and this is not helping. I have no clue why they are telling me this, anyway. I was pregnant only for the briefest of moments, and that was months ago. Far too late for the information they’re giving me now.  

Glancing around the table, Haymitch and Mom are both watching me raptly rather than paying attention to the doctors’ explanation. Neither of them seems perplexed in the least by the purpose of this meeting. It’s just me then. 

“You know already that District Thirteen suffered a bad pox epidemic some years back, which left the majority or our citizens sterile and unable to reproduce. Our numbers have been greatly depleted and it is only becoming more difficult to maintain substantial population growth, so when a pregnancy does occur, we leave nothing to chance. We employ the artificial gestation technique perfected in the Capitol. At about ten weeks of a pregnancy, the fetus is removed from the uterus and placed in the incubation tank to mature.” 

Here, Dr. Hart pauses in his explanation to gesture towards the door on the other side of the room. “This process allows for full fetal development in a much shorter time span than a natural pregnancy. Usually about four to five months or so. The fetus is able to grow much faster without relying on the mother to share her supply of energy and nutrients. This procedure has had a very successful track record of producing healthy babies in a sterile environment, seeing as the infant spends less time exposed to outside elements and illnesses through the mother.” 

“I still don’t understand what this has to do with me,” I say, annoyed now. My hand goes nervously to my hair, toying with the frayed end of my braid in frustration. My mother sits stoic in her seat, but Haymitch reaches out to touch my arm gently. 

“Just listen, sweetheart,” he says. His rough cadence is much softer than usual. I turn my attention back to the doctors, willing my brain to keep up with them. 

“Yours was one of the riskiest procedures ever attempted,” Dr. Collins says to me. “You were only eight weeks along in your pregnancy and you had already lost so much blood, not to mention the significant emotional and physical traumas you experienced in the arena. We usually like to wait until at least ten weeks of natural gestation have passed- once the embryonic stage has been completed- to remove the fetus from the womb. But yours was a special circumstance. The baby would have been lost for good if she’d stayed in your womb any longer. We got her out just in time.” 

“What-“ 

“Go have a look,” Haymitch says, standing and leading me toward the door with the tiny window. Placing my hands on the cold metal, I lean up to peer through the glass. 

There is a lot of machinery and lights blinking on screens and tubes and wires, and- “There. Right there,” Haymitch says, pointing to what appears to be a tiny, pale _something_ enclosed in a clear dome in the very center of the equipment. I squint at it, unable to discern what it’s supposed to be. And then I see it. The miniscule pink hand resting against the glass. Knuckles curled in a tiny fist.

“Is that…?” 

“Your daughter,” he says. “Congratulations, sweetheart.” 

For a single, heart-stopping moment, words fail me. My voice is lodged somewhere in my throat. It can’t be true. I accepted long ago that my baby was gone. Dead, like so many others in my life. 

I whip my head around to glare the doctors, both of whom are observing me intently. “How do I know it’s mine?” I spit, a little too much venom in my voice. 

“We would be happy to conduct a DNA analysis for you,” Dr. Hart offers. “We can test her DNA against Peeta’s too, if you need proof that he’s the father.” 

The implications of this bring me up short for another minute. 

“No, that’s not… I mean… Peeta is- no, _was_ \- the father,” I stutter. “That’s not what I meant when I said… My baby is _gone_.” If I say it loud, it will be true again. 

“Wait until you see her up close, Katniss,” Mom says, speaking up for the first time since we entered this room. “She’s yours.” 

“That’s not good enough!” I shout, startling the small group of people around me, but my temper stops me from caring. I am more than angry. I am absolutely _livid_. Apparently I _was_ the only one left out of the loop. I shrug away from the comforting hand Haymitch has placed on my shoulder. I don’t want any of them to touch me right now. “You said this takes _months_ ,” I accuse. “If that really is my baby then why wasn’t I told before now?” 

“Like we said, this procedure in particular was a very risky one. Until very recently we couldn’t be certain that it would be successful at all. We didn’t know exactly what we were heading into when we began the process and no one wanted to instill false hope…” but Dr. Hart trails off under my steely glare. 

Of course no one wanted to further upset the crazy, depressive, potentially suicidal girl who’d already lost everything. No one bothers to tell Katniss anything unless it benefits the rebellion or the stupid propos. I’m tired of being a pawn, something to be used and cast aside by these people. I’m sick of their games. 

And I don’t care what they say. That baby is not mine. They’re pulling one over on me. They want to use it as a prop for the stupid propos. Or maybe they think it’ll help me get back to normal, whatever that means for me. But whoever’s baby is in there it is _not_ mine. 

I _saw_ the blood trickle down my legs into the sand. _Felt_ the stabbing, agonizing pains when I lost her.  

“Maybe if you went in and saw her, it would help you to accept it,” Dr. Collins suggests, not unkindly. 

“No.” 

I’m adamant on this. No way in hell am I going near that baby. I can’t do it. My body does not have the capacity for that kind of agony. The pain of it will tear an even deeper hole in my heart, and this time there will be no chance of recovery. To go see that baby up close would be to let myself hope. And I can’t afford to think like that. 

All I want to do is go back to the hospital to Peeta and help him get his memories back. That is what I need to be focusing on right now. Not some random replacement child they’re trying to throw at me. 

“The baby is in the final post- incubation stages and under careful observation at the moment,” says Dr. Hart. “If all goes well- and we suspect it will- she will be ready to leave incubation in one week’s time. The date of her release will be her official birthday. We thought you might get used to the idea in that time.” 

I gape at them, unable to believe what I’m hearing. Almost 5 months I’ve been coping with this loss and now they expect me to forget that and take care of a baby as though it never happened?  

“Please, Katniss,” Mom pleads with me. “Just go in and see her.” 

“No.”

“You can do it, sweetheart,” Haymitch says.

_“No.”_  

It takes several more minutes of encouragement from the four people in the room before I finally concede to go in just to look at the infant. Even then, I’m doing it more to quiet them than anything else, really. 

When the door to the Incubation room is opened, I tiptoe inside as though there are bombs lacing the floor. In a moment of complete insanity, I’m brought back to my first Games. The Career’s stock of food and weapons piled high into a deadly pyramid and rigged to explode with a single misplaced step. 

Every step I take towards the infant is the wrong move; I can feel it in my bones. Any moment the blast will trigger and my heart will collapse. There will be no saving it this time. 

Upon closer inspection, the infant lies upon a clean white surface enclosed by a clear dome. _Like a mini arena,_ I think morbidly. Only this dome sustains life, whereas my arenas were made to destroy it. Holes in the bubble ( _force field_ ) allow wires and tubes to pass through, and these are hooked to strategic areas on the baby- forehead, nose, tummy, arms, and feet- but otherwise, this looks just like any other baby I’ve ever seen. Wrinkly. Pink. Indistinct. The only feature that really distinguishes this child in any way is the tuft of dark hair atop her head. I know she’s not mine, though, and something akin to despair surges through me at the realization because no matter what I told myself before coming in here, I couldn’t help hoping. 

I would _feel_ something for her if this were my daughter in front of me, I’m certain of it. Before he died, my father often spoke about two of the happiest days of his life being when he met Prim and me as newborns for the first time. He always said how he knew in that moment that he would do absolutely anything to protect us. Of course he would. That’s how he died. 

_It’s_ _parental instinct, that protectiveness_ , he told me once. _Like a mother bear and her cubs._  

I feel nothing but emptiness when I look at this child. No innate instincts, no urge to protect, no _love_. 

I am just about to turn away from the clear bubble, about to go in search of one of my secluded hiding places and succumb to my inevitable breakdown in peace, when it happens. 

The baby’s eyes flicker open. Brilliant, piercing blue eyes stare up at me. Peeta’s eyes. 

As absolutely positive as I was seconds ago that this is not my child, I am sure of this fact now. I’ve looked into those eyes a million times. I’ve seen determination, laughter, love, and more recently, hatred, anger, and confusion in them. Now they hold only wide- eyed innocence, keeping me captivated for several seconds before the baby blinks sleepily and the spell breaks. 

Boom. This is the explosion I was waiting for. The blast shatters my insides and deafens the voices of those around me. Any of my remaining composure is obliterated in the aftermath and I turn on my heel and bolt from the room before Haymitch, Mom, or either of the two doctors can stop me. 

Out through the little conference room, down the twisting passage of hallways, and past the door that would lead me to Peeta. _How badly I want to go to him now!_ But he’s still so unstable at times, so entirely unpredictable, that I have no way of knowing how he would handle the news, or even me, hysterical as I am. For now I head for another closet in the medical ward. The door slams shut behind me, my chest heaving to catch my breath. 

Despite my efforts, I can physically feel all the progression I’ve made up to this point melt away as the fragile threads that hold me together unravel at the seams. I sink to the floor, curling into a ball and attempting to make myself as small and insignificant as possible. 

Several different voices call my name. The sounds grow louder, dangerously close to my closet, but then Haymitch’s gravelly bark interrupts. “Stop! Let her be. Just leave her alone for now.” He’s spent enough time hunting me down and dragging me out of my strange little hiding places by now to know exactly where I am, but I get the feeling he’s choosing to let me remain here. “She’ll find us when she’s ready,” he insists. 

There’s a grumbling murmur of assent as my search party dissipates. Then footsteps approach my closet and Haymitch’s voice warbles through the door, muffled by the metal barrier. “We’re here when you need us, sweetheart.” The footsteps walk away again, leaving me in silence. 

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I was in the Hunger Games. I escaped. I was pregnant. Peeta is alive. Our baby is dead._  

No, no that’s not right anymore. 

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I was in the Hunger Games. I escaped. I was pregnant. Peeta is alive. Our baby is alive._

_Not real not real not real._

My mind simply refuses to accept the fact that I’ve been wrong all these months. It rejects the very idea that I have a daughter, nevertheless one who is alive and well. My hand goes to my pocket, groping desperately for my pearl and when my trembling fingers locate it at last, they it clench tightly. Clinging to the last shred of sanity I have left.

 

*****

 

Deceived. Betrayed. Utterly and completely blind sighted. That’s how I feel hours later when, still crouched in the supply closet, I am finally able to wrap my head around the situation. 

I don’t know the doctors here well enough to be angry with them, but Haymitch and Mom… both of them lied to me. Neither of them bothered to tell me about this, and lying by omission is still lying. It’s old news for Haymitch, I suppose, but it’s not something I saw coming from Mom. Maybe I’m just disappointed that she failed my already low expectations for her. 

In either case, I have no desire to see them. The only person in the world who I want to see, the only one who could possibly empathize with me right now, is Peeta. I promised him I’d come back right after the meeting, but that was hours ago. He’s probably worried sick by now. Or he thinks I’m an evil mutt that has abandoned him, depending on his current mood. 

The last thing I want to do is cause one of his flashbacks if he _is_ angry with me, but if I don’t show up at all it might take me weeks to earn his trust back. I don’t think I have it in me to go through that a second time. So it is for his sake that I unfold my arms from around my body and rise on stiff legs from the fetal position, exiting the closet at last. 

He looks up in surprise from his tray of food when I enter his room. My stomach confirms with an angry growl that it must be dinnertime. 

“Where have you been?” His voice is a mixture of worry, a hint of anger, and a lot of confusion. There is no trace of the hijacked victim behind his eyes, but the expression on his face warns that it is not safe to tell him what has happened. Not yet. Not when I haven’t accepted it myself. 

“I’m so sorry, Peeta. It was another Mockingjay meeting. Plutarch has all these ideas…” I ramble, knowing it is not a complete lie because I’m sure the last part at the very least is true. Plutarch always has a never-ending list of ways to exploit the star- crossed lovers. 

Peeta considers this, a slight frown on his lips. Watching him with bated breath, I wish I could see his thought process now, but it is entirely impossible to discern what he is thinking. The best move is to remain silent and let him speak first. 

“Well are you hungry then?” He asks eventually. He holds out the slice of bread on his tray, and even though it is just the standard District 13 stuff- tasteless, coarse, and grainy- my eyes fill with tears at the gesture. 

“Thank you.” 

A tentative smile curves his lips. “No problem.” 

When I reach forward to accept the bread, his hand does not shake at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have always wondered just how far medical technology could go in Katniss’s Panem. We get little hints in canon with all the body modifications of people in the Capitol, but this is my little foray into exploring the topic further. 
> 
> Huge, endless thank- yous go out to every single one of you for reading "More Than Words." You have all been so wonderful and supportive and you give me the encouragement I need to keep writing. I’m so excited to finally share this chapter with you, and I’m dying to hear what you think! Let me know in the comments, and as always, come talk to me on tumblr. 
> 
> xoxo


	12. Part 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to start by sending out an enormous virtual hug to all of my readers. Whether you’ve talked to me personally, or whether you’re another story alert in my inbox, please know that I appreciate every single one of you. 
> 
> I received so much encouraging and thought- provoking feedback on the last chapter, and some of you even questioned the ethics surrounding Katniss’s situation- in particular the fact that decisions were made about her body and her baby without her consent. I agree wholeheartedly that this is wrong, but I wrote it with the spirit of the books in mind. The nation of Panem clearly has some very skewed moral values, and based on canonical evidence (like the use of the parachute bombs and the treatment of Katniss’ prep team) I believe it is something those in District 13 would do. 
> 
> Thanks to your comments however, I realized that I needed to address this issue, and I’ve done a little revising to include some closure and justice on Katniss’ behalf. You’ll see the very beginning of that in this chapter, but the full ramifications will pop up later on. I apologize for the long note, but I wanted to sincerely thank you for your comments. Feedback like that helps me improve as a writer, and this story is better because of it. 
> 
> Without further ado, here is chapter 11.

I awake the next morning with a plan fully formed in my head, as though my sleeping brain has been working on it all night.

Skipping breakfast entirely, I make my way to the hospital with purpose running through my veins. I corner the first nurse I see, demanding a meeting with either Dr. Collins or Dr. Hart immediately. Something about my demeanor makes the nurse agreeable, and she scurries off to find them without argument. Ten minutes later, Dr. Collins is striding towards me.

“I want the DNA test,” I blurt without so much as a cursory _hello_ or even an apology for my behavior yesterday. The doctor only inclines her head, completely unfazed. 

“Absolutely; I’ll conduct it myself. Follow me,” she says. 

Relieved that she didn’t ask questions, I traipse down the hallway behind her. My mind will not rest until I know with 100% certainty that the child is mine. Yes, her eyes are similar to Peeta’s-almost eerily so- but if I don’t get cold, hard, beyond- a- shadow- of- a- doubt evidence, I will always wonder. If it turns out she is not mine, I can go about my life guilt- free and unencumbered. If she is mine… well, I have not come up with a plan for that possibility yet.

“It’s really a very simple process,” the doctor is saying. “A buccal swab is all we will need.” We end up in the same room as yesterday, where she pulls a white stick and a small electronic device from her pocket. It looks a bit like a handheld remote with a few buttons and a screen that covers most of its surface. Dr. Collins instructs me to run the cotton end of the stick over the inside of my mouth. “The cells on your cheek contain genetic information,” she explains. “We feed them through the specialized screen…” Here she takes the swab from me and swipes it over the top on the device. “And now we do the same with the baby’s.” 

She props open the door of the incubation room, but I hesitate to enter. “Would you prefer to wait here?” she asks gently. I shake my head, determined to see the whole process with my own eyes, and step resolutely into the room. 

A nurse is here today with a clipboard in hand. She looks up from her notes when I enter with the doctor and moves away to give us space. This time I don’t walk right up to the infant in the middle, just close enough to watch as Dr. Collins pokes a gloved hand through one of the holes in the clear dome and runs a fresh swab into the baby’s mouth. She repeats the same process, swiping the cells onto the screen of the analyzer and then beckons me out of the incubation area. 

“It takes a few minutes to analyze the DNA. We can wait here until it gives us a definitive answer,” says Dr. Collins.  

My head drops into my hands as I take a seat in one of the conference room’s uncomfortable metal chairs. This is it. 

I’m so lost in my anxious thoughts about the possible outcome that I jump in my seat when I feel a hand on my shoulder. “You know Katniss, there are other options available if you’re not, well… if you don’t feel that you are _ready_ to be a parent,” the doctor says.  

“What do you mean?”

“Only that there are a lot of sterile couples here that would be happy to raise a child.” 

Her voice holds no note of bitterness, but she casts her eyes down at the table and for the first time, her professional manner slips just a fraction. Her behavior prompts me to wonder exactly what it was that inspired this woman to become a fertility and obstetric specialist. 

“Not that you would have to make that choice,” she rushes on, misinterpreting my thoughtful scowl. “Just something to think about.” 

Adoption is not an unheard of occurrence in District 12. On rare occasions, a child will be chosen from the community home by one of the wealthier families in town, but most cannot afford more mouths to feed. If this baby _is_ mine, could I ever allow someone else to raise her? I would be free of responsibility, but she would be left to grow up here in this underground tomb of a district, never knowing me, or Peeta. 

“Katniss, I want you to know that if I’d had my way, we would have told you about all this months ago,” Dr. Collins says in the same hurried tone, glancing nervously around the room as though checking for eavesdroppers. “Even as high- risk as the procedure was, you deserved to know about it. It wasn’t fair to spring all of this on you at once.” 

“What? You… you _wanted_ to tell me?” If this is true, why am I here months later having just found out? Something about the way she’s speaking gives me the feeling that she’s not supposed to be telling me this at all.. 

“Yes, I was very vocal about letting you in the loop, but it was thought by… _some_ that you wouldn’t be able to handle the information in your condition.” 

One of the main reasons for my insistence of this DNA test is because I _wasn’t_ informed. If this was truly my child, I should have been told straight away. It does not make sense that I was kept in the dark for so long, especially since my mental health has vastly improved in the time that I’ve been here, but I find myself trusting what the doctor is sharing with me now. Who would have insisted I not be told about this as soon as I was deemed “mentally stable?” What did they have to gain by keeping this from me? 

“Who-“ 

Just then the little device beeps in the doctor’s hand, and the question dies in my throat. Dr. Collins glances briefly at the result, then holds it up for me so that I can see the screen: 

99.99% CONFIRMED DNA MATCH

KATNISS EVERDEEN-MELLARK, MOTHER

FEMALE SUBJECT 1207M, DAUGHTER 

My stomach performs a funny little leap and I don’t know whether it’s from relief or shock or if I’m about to throw up.

It’s like finding out all over again, only this time I don’t fall apart and cry. It is more like every other thought leaves my mind as the information seeps into my bones, and the realization that _I am a mother_ weighs on my chest, blocking any air from entering or leaving my body. 

“99.99% is as high as the test goes. A perfect match. You’ve got time to decide what you want to do,” the doctor says, a comforting hand on my arm. “She won’t be released for another six days. Let us know what you choose.”

 

*****

 

“Katniss, what’s wrong?” 

Peeta’s question jerks me out of the stupor I’ve been in all morning after my visit with Dr. Collins. I know I’ve been more reserved with him than usual, but he has been largely focused on his latest drawing up until now, or so I’d thought.   

“What? Nothing,” I say hastily, forcing a smile onto my face. 

“Really? Because you seem distracted,” he says. 

“Distracted,” I repeat, at a loss for how to respond to that.

“Yeah. I’ve asked you at least three questions and you haven’t replied to a single one.”

“I’m so sorry, Peeta. You’re right… there’s just a lot on my mind.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

The truthful answer is _yes I want to talk about it_. With him especially. My decision with respect to the baby affects him as much as it affects me, but I haven’t been cleared to tell him yet. Dr. Aurelius was informed of the situation this morning, but after Peeta’s reaction to the footage of our love- making during the Quell, the doctor is insisting that I wait to tell him until he has been declared stable enough to move out of the hospital and in with Haymitch, hopefully within the next week or so. I’m not at all happy about this. To me it feels like a betrayal to keep it from him any longer, but Peeta’s recovery means more to me than anything, especially in light of the recent events. I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize his progress. Therefore, I reluctantly agreed to comply with Dr. Aurelius’ orders. For now. 

“I… um, there’s a big decision I have to make,” I say, choosing my words with great caution. “And I don’t know what I should do.” 

Peeta has a slight frown on his face, and I can only hope he doesn’t guess that my dilemma involves him so heavily. “Well, Katniss I think you should go with your gut.” 

“That’s all you’ve got for me?” I say, half- teasing, half- disappointed. 

“I just mean that your instincts are generally good. They _have_ gotten us through two Hunger Games after all,” he says, grinning at me. “Besides, _I’ve_ learned to trust you again after all this time. Maybe it’s time you trusted yourself.” 

The innate survivalist part of me is screaming that two mentally damaged teenagers in a war- torn country might not be the best people or situation in which to raise a baby. And the media frenzy that would undoubtedly accompany the revelation would be a nightmare. We would never have another private moment again. Our daughter would grow up in the same blinding spotlight of exploitation that I have lived under for the better part of two years. It is not something I would wish on any person, let alone an innocent child.

But… _go with your gut_. _Trust yourself._

The picture comes to me so clearly now like it never has before, eclipsing the potential media storm and even my own reservations. A dark- haired little girl with her hair in two braids instead of one, laughing and joyful in disposition. I could take her hunting in my woods. I still have the first tiny bow my father made for me as a child tucked away in the heart of the forest. I’d praise her over her first shot, and at the end of the day we would come home to Peeta, who would dote on her and spoil her with baked goods. He would relish the opportunity to teach her to bake and paint as well as he can. She could be the absolute best of both of us. Maybe with his charisma and my strong will, she would flourish in this life.

_Go with your gut. Trust yourself._ There is only one direction I can possibly take.

 

*****

 

And so it is that I find myself a less than a week later attempting to assemble a crib in my family’s compartment. Prim watches on as I fumble with the screwdriver, trying not to agonize over my decision any more than I have already. I’m still struggling to accept it, but in the end it always comes down to one thing: I can’t rob Peeta of the chance to raise his daughter any more than I can deprive myself of the same gift. 

Though this knowledge is solidified in my mind, it does nothing to prepare me for the moment when the nurse arrives at our door with a bundle of white blankets in her arms. Somehow away from the hospital, away from the tubes and screens and the protection of the clear force field, the whole situation becomes real for the first time. This is not some phantom image of a little girl anymore; this is a human being that is alive and breathing and fully dependent on _me_.

Frozen in place with the screwdriver clutched in my hand, I can’t bring myself to move towards her. With an uncertain glance to me, Prim extends her arms to accept the child on my behalf. 

A second woman, who introduces herself as a District 13 hospital administrator, approaches me with a folder of paperwork. I fill out the forms, assuming legal responsibility over the infant, while the nurse speaks to my mother in the background. There is an empty space next to my shaky signature on the paper for Peeta to sign if he wishes, and I’m hoping that when the time comes, he will. 

After they have presented me with an allowance of clothing and diapers, my mother escorts the nurse and the administrator from the compartment, leaving Prim, the baby, and me alone in crushing silence, unless you count the violent palpitations of my heart. They are so loud in my own ears that I’m convinced even the people in the compartment next door can hear them. 

“What are you going to call her?” Prim asks, oblivious to the tension radiating off me as she cradles the sleeping infant to her chest. From the tender expression on her face, I’m sure Prim would willingly and gladly hold her all night long, which is fine with me. The whole situation is overwhelming enough already and her question takes me aback. A name? Now that I think about it, all the legal forms simply referred to the infant as _Baby Mellark_.

“I don’t know. I haven’t even started thinking of names, yet.” 

“Did Peeta ever mention one that he liked?”

“No. We never talked about it.” 

“Hmmm,” says Prim thoughtfully. “I bet I can think of some good names. 

“Oh right. This coming from the girl who named that mangy beast of a cat _Buttercup_ , of all things,” I tease. 

“Buttercup is a lovely name!” she says indignantly. 

“He’s a _boy_ cat, Prim.” I roll my eyes at her.

She chuckles, but concedes. “I guess you’re right.” Then after a long, contemplative pause, “What about Rue?” She says it so softly that I almost don’t hear it. 

“I… No. I couldn’t… just… no.” Even now just thinking about it I get a sickening pang of loss in my stomach for my little ally in the arena. I have enough ghosts of my own. I don’t need to give them to my daughter, too. 

“Well I’m sure we’ll come up with something. For now she can stay Baby Mellark. Won’t you?” Prim coos delightedly at the baby, peppering kisses all over the top of her head. 

Our mom reenters the room then, holding a small box in one hand and pulling out of it a syringe ending in a long, silver needle with the other. I’m still angry with her for lying to me, and up until now I’ve done my best to ignore her entirely. She told me that she and Haymitch had learned about the baby scarcely a week before I did, but this did nothing to quell my anger towards either of them. Consequently, I do not take pleasure in her presence now.

“What’s that for?” I snap, glaring warily at the needle. 

“It’s a hormone injection,” she explains. “Prolactin. The nurse left it with me so that you can breastfeed the baby. I’ll have to administer the dose daily until your body takes the cue and begins producing milk on its own.” 

“But… can’t she just use a bottle?” I ask, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice. 

My mom shakes her head. “Babies need all the nutrients they can get from their mothers. The artificial gestation process is highly advanced, but even it can’t replace all the natural antibodies your body has to offer her.” 

“Wait. If it’s just an injection to produce milk, then why couldn’t you do it? I mean, theoretically, couldn’t any other woman…” I’m practically begging now, grasping at straws. I was wrong. So incredibly wrong. I am not at all ready for this. 

“She needs her mother, Katniss. That’s not me,” she says softly.

“But you’re still biologically related, aren’t you? Even Prim…“ _Even 13-year-old Prim would make a better mother than me._ Just look at her. She’s a natural with the baby. I’m still too reluctant to even touch the child. 

Both of the women that consist of my family watch the beginnings of my breakdown with pitying eyes. 

“Katniss.” And here Mom pockets the syringe and reaches out to hold my face between her hands. He lithe fingers caress my cheeks, wiping away the moisture that spills from my eyes. It’s a gesture she hasn’t made since I was very small, both because she became so distant and I wouldn’t allow it when she finally tried to reconnect with me. Now, however, I find it strangely comforting. When she speaks to me, she does so in the same voice that she uses with her dying patients. The calm, gentle tone that promises to soothe and comfort. 

“My brave, beautiful daughter. You can do this. You’ll see. Technically, yes, any woman could take the shot and feed the baby, but nursing is an important time for both mother and child. It’s a bonding experience. I promise you’ll regret it if you don’t do it now… You need this more than you know, Katniss.” 

I stare at her beseechingly for several panic- stricken seconds, then at the baby beginning to fuss in Prim’s arms. Her soft whimpers rapidly escalate until she emits an elongated, piercing cry. My heartbeat accelerates, thumping a million miles an hour as the jabberjays begin to swarm in around me. The agonized cries of a hundred infants echo through the walls, and suddenly I’m back in the jungle, the heavy air pressing in around me where I crouch in the fetal position with my hands clamped over my ears. 

“Katniss!” Peeta calls to me. I shake my head violently. _No_. I can feel the cramping abdominal pains again, the blood slipping down my legs…

“Katniss!” 

Only it’s not Peeta prying my hands from my ears this time. It’s my mom pulling me out of the arena and back into our District 13 compartment.

“Oh, _Katniss_.” She draws me into her fragile embrace and holds me while I sob uncontrollably into her shoulder. The baby’s sobs fade somewhat as Prim takes her into the adjacent bedroom, but I can still hear them through the paper thin walls. 

It occurs to me how absurdly twisted it is for Prim be in the other room comforting my child while I ball into my own mother’s neck like a baby. “You can do this, sweetie. I promise,” Mom says, rubbing a hand in comforting circles over my back.

“I can’t protect her!” I choke, slightly hysterical. “What if something happens…“ Something already did happen, of course. I lost her once. And now that I have her back against all odds, I’m too terrified to even go near her. 

“One thing you will learn about being a mother is that you can’t protect your children from everything. The best you can do is love them and provide them with everything you have to give, even if that is not good enough.”  I search my mother’s apologetic eyes, so sorrowful and lined ahead of her years, and in this moment, I can almost forgive her. For not telling me about the baby. For her breakdown after Dad died. For abandoning Prim and me. For the first time in six years, the grudge I’ve held in my heart lessens ever so slightly at her words.

My throat too tight to speak, I give her a silent nod of my head. Something flickers behind her eyes, proving to me that we have reached an understanding of some sort. We will never be as close as perhaps a mother and daughter should be, but this is one small step towards repairing our fractured relationship. 

She is making a conscious effort to help me now, and some part of me knows that she is right. All I ever wanted for my child was for her to lead a better life than I. With the whole country in rebellion, who knows what will become of the years ahead? I have no real control over this war, or its outcome. The only thing I can do now is providing my daughter with a head start into the uncertain future. 

“Okay,” I relent, before I lose my nerve. “I’ll do it.” I still turn resolutely away, gritting my teeth and wincing as Mom sticks the needle into my upper arm and plunges down the top.

“Give it a few minutes, and you should be ready for the baby to nurse. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?” she suggests. I seat myself awkwardly on the edge of our small, government- issued couch. My mother shakes her head, an amused smile upon her lips. “No, like this.” She guides my hips all the way back, then fetches two pillows, laying one across my lap and tucking the other under my arm to support my elbow. “Now all that’s missing is the baby,” she says, disappearing into the bedroom and returning with the fussing bundle in hand, Prim close on her heels. 

Mom coos gently at the baby, rocking her for a few minutes to soothe her tears. When the sobs have receded to whimpering hiccups, she nestles the baby into the crook of my arm for the first time. The small, warm weight feels entirely foreign in my arms. 

With one arm supporting the baby’s head, I fumble with the buttons on my blouse one- handed, and Mom steps in to help my trembling fingers undo the first few. I shrug one of my bra straps down my shoulder to expose my breast, now heavy with milk, to the infant. 

“Here, like this.” Mom guides the baby’s head to my chest, nudging the mouth open with a finger. The baby roots around for a minute, searching, before latching onto my nipple. When she begins to suckle, I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. It’s a curious feeling. Not at all like the pleasurable sensations when Peeta used his tongue and mouth on my breasts in the past, but more of a firm tugging. It’s slightly uncomfortable, though at least it’s not painful. 

“She’s a natural,” Mom says, smiling. “Just like you when you were a baby, Katniss.” 

At this reassuring sentiment, I calm slightly, allowing myself to really _look_ at the baby as she nurses. Her skin is flushed pink and impossibly smooth. The dark little tuft of hair atop her head is feather soft against the skin of my arm, and the smell of her is something entirely unique. Inclining my head toward the infant to get a better whiff, I determine that it’s not like anything I’ve ever smelled before. It’s almost powdery somehow. Soft and innocent and delicate. Fresh, like a springtime breeze. A thoroughly intoxicating scent in its own way. 

As I hold her, my fear ebbs slowly away. Like a bitter toxin sucked from my bloodstream, my entire body relaxes. The tension in my muscles disappears as I sink further back into the couch in search of a more comfortable position. My rapid heart rate slows and there’s a sense of utmost contentment flooding through my veins that takes place of the rampant anxiety from moments ago. Miraculously, it is all connected to the tiny being in my arms. 

The finger of my free hand traces her features, still too indistinct for me to decide if they are more Mellark or Everdeen. She looks mostly like any other infant I’ve seen in my life, and yet she is so _beautiful_ in a way that no child has ever been before. Not even my earliest memories of Prim as a baby can compare. 

The longer I gaze at her, the more I decide that maybe I _can_ distinguish her features. The delicate nose that just might have the same slope as Prim’s, and the dimpled chin that was so distinct in my father. Though her brilliant blue eyes are closed, her eyelashes are thick and dark- the longest I’ve ever seen on an infant- and they brush along the tops of her chubby cheeks, just like Peeta’s do. 

Certainly by the vigor with which she’s feeding, she has my appetite. Unlike the suffering of my own childhood, I know that she will never go hungry. 

And in this moment, I am relieved. So irrevocably relieved that I have her. She is mine and she is Peeta’s. Anything else is unthinkable. 

One of her arms has freed itself from the confines of the blanket and now rests against the exposed skin of my chest, a pale pink contrast to my olive tone. My finger trails down her arm to stroke her little fist, and to my great surprise, her hand opens and then closes again around my finger. Her grip is astonishingly solid for such a tiny little thing. I look up in utter amazement, momentarily startled to find both Prim and my mother still in the room and watching me intently, their eyes glassy with unshed tears. 

“Yes, babies do that,” Mom assures me. “It’s a good sign. It means she’s healthy.” The baby does not let go of my finger, and I have no desire to move it. I remain where I am on the couch, gazing down at my perfect daughter long after she is finished nursing, her strong little fist still wrapped tightly around my finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please share your thoughts in the comments and feel free to look me up on tumblr: everlarkstoastbabies. Sometimes I even post little snippets from my upcoming chapters. 
> 
> Stay tuned for the next update! xoxo


	13. Part 12

“Take the corners and fold them in toward the middle to form a triangle. Make sure to leave some extra cloth in the back.” 

“Like that?”

“No, more like this.” Mom’s hands replace my own, her lithe fingers accomplishing the task before I can blink twice. Then she unfolds the cloth again so that I can give it another try. 

I struggle to repeat the motions just as she did, albeit much more slowly. But I am determined. If I can learn to skin and gut animals with only a dull knife in the middle of the woods, I can learn to properly diaper an infant. 

“Perfect,” Mom says once I get it right. “And pull the front part up between her legs… good. Now you just pin it on the sides.” She hands me the pins and it takes a few frustrated minutes to fasten the sides of the diaper without sticking the squirming baby, during which I stick _myself_ an awful lot, but I finally manage the task. 

“Now wrap her up in the blanket like I showed you earlier.” I take the sides of the blanket and tuck them securely around the baby’s arms and legs like a burrito.

“And… done!” Mom says, scooping the freshly changed and bundled baby off the floor. “See, Katniss, it’s not that hard. The last thing you have to do is roll up the old diaper and put it in the pail.” 

I do as she says, then go into the bathroom to wash my hands. “And _how_ many times a day do I have to do that?” I shout from the sink. 

Mom laughs. “There were times that I went through twelve diapers a day with you!” 

“ _Twelve_?” I gape, stepping back into the living room. “Seriously?” She nods, placing the baby back in my arms. 

“Sometimes even more. She’ll go through fewer as she gets older. Most of the dirty work is right in the beginning.” 

For such a tiny person, the baby really _is_ a lot of work. I don’t think I’ve slept for more than three hours at a time in the few days that she’s been here. Training sessions with the other soldiers have become a thing of the past, and I haven’t been to see Peeta at all. The feedings at all hours of the day and night are beginning to wear on me too. Most surprising of all, my mother has proven an invaluable ally during the whole experience. She seems to be trying to make up for her past parenting missteps by teaching me how to take care of my own child. I would be remiss to say that I could have survived these first few days without her, and any debt she owed me for taking care of Prim has been repaid a thousand times over.

Slowly but surely, I am learning. Because eventually I’ll have to teach Peeta how to do all of this. But not yet. 

Once Dr. Aurelius found out about the baby, he insisted that Peeta settle into a stable routine before receiving any more life- altering news. The plan is to break it to him gently and in a controlled environment in the hopes that he will take it well. I neglected point out that this tactic had not been incredibly successful on me. 

Therefore, it is against my better judgment that I am under strict orders to keep the entire situation under wraps until that right moment presents itself. For this reason, I have been avoiding Peeta. It’s easier to lie from a distance.  

“Do you think you’ll be okay without me for a little while?” Mom says.” I have a shift scheduled in the hospital today, but I can stay if you need me.” Her pale eyebrows are creased slightly and I can tell that she is apprehensive about the idea. Prim resumed her school classes and her shift at the hospital yesterday, so this would be my first time completely alone with the baby. Just the thought causes a swell of anxiety within me, the ever- present knot in my stomach rampantly expanding, rising to my chest and threatening to choke me. But I’ve kept Mom away from the hospital for long enough. The baby is my responsibility, not hers. 

“No, you go ahead,” I tell her, trying for a confident smile, but it gets stuck along the way and becomes more of a grimace. 

“Katniss, are you sure? I could just tell them you need me here; I’m sure they would understand…” 

“No. I’ll be fine. Really,” I say, in a feeble attempt to convince us both. 

Mom still looks nervous about leaving, but eventually decides to go. “Look, don’t be afraid to send for me if you need _anything_ ,” she says. “You’ll be fine. I know you can handle it.” Her hand caresses my cheek and she gives me a reassuring smile before she goes.   

The door has barely clicked shut behind her when the baby begins to cry. Loudly. It’s as though she can sense my barely- controlled panic and it upsets her as much as it does me. 

As her cries escalate, my anxiety becomes a full- blown panic attack. The jabberjays from begin to swarm around my head again; my chest heaves with shallow breaths. There is no one here to pull me back from the trenches of the arena this time. Only the weight of my daughter in my arms keeps me in the present. But I have no clue what to do! I changed her diaper only minutes ago, and I nursed and burped her prior to that. 

It occurs to me to call my mother back; she’d know what to do. She’s coached me on every aspect of taking care of this baby for days now, but this is the point where I’d usually thrust the child into her arms and let her take it from here. Now that that is no longer an option, I try all the tactics she’s shown me. Swaying from side to side, walking around the compartment, bouncing the baby gently in my embrace. None of it works. In fact, her cries grow piercingly louder, and my panic rises exponentially until I’m blinking back tears myself. There is only one thing left I can think to do that will calm us both. I sing. 

_Deep in the meadow, under the willow_

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow_

_Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes_

_And when you wake, the sun will rise_  

I sing the entire song, verse by verse, then again. I sing every song I can remember my father singing to me from childhood, rocking her in my arms and continuing my path up and down the compartment until finally, _finally_ , her tears recede and her blue eyes flutter closed and she sleeps. 

Heaving an exhausted sigh of relief, I sink gingerly onto the couch cushions, careful not to jostle her awake. A few stray tears roll silently down my face, and I use my free hand to brush them away. _It’s so hard._ I was right before. I’m not cut out to be a mother. The urge to escape to one of my old hiding places is stronger than ever. To leave the baby with Mom or Prim at the hospital and curl up in a dark place and just let it all out. The fear, the anger, the weariness. Everything. My distress starts to give way to fatigue as the poisonous thoughts swirl around my mind, but I’m jerked suddenly away from them by a harsh knock at the front door. 

It’s Haymitch. His mouth is already open as though he wants to say something when I answer the door, but he visibly deflates when he takes in the sight of my red eyes and tear- stained cheeks. “Oh shit,” he says, in lieu of whatever he intended to say. 

Maybe it’s the situation finally catching up to me. Maybe my mental health isn’t as sound as the doctors would have me believe. Maybe it is just the hormone injections I have been taking lately. Whatever the cause, the tears suddenly pour down my face in a literal flood of emotion and there is nothing I can do to stop them. Haymitch’s expression turns almost comically terrified and he looks wildly around the compartment for help, but none comes. Finally seeming to realize that he is on his own with an emotionally unstable girl- who- is- not- yet- a- woman, he wraps me in his arms and holds me there, letting me soak his shirt with my tears. All the while, he pats my back, saying, “Shhh. It’s gonna be okay, sweetheart. It’s gonna be okay. It’ll be worth it. You’ll see.” 

After a while he guides me back to the couch, pulling a rag from his back pocket so that I can blow my nose into it. He continues to rub my back as I attempt to pull myself back together. 

“S-sorry,” I say through my hiccups.

Haymitch just shakes his head. “No. You don’t need to apologize. _I’m_ sorry, sweetheart. That’s why I’m here.”

“Oh.” I mop the last of the moisture from my eyes and take several deep, rattling breaths. Haymitch seems infinitely relieved that I’m finally calming down. 

“Yeah. Look, I know you’re mad at me,” he says. “You have every right to be, but I swear they only told us about the, uh… the baby a couple days before you found out yourself.” He grants me an opening to speak, maybe expecting me to contradict him or berate him, but he continues when I do not.  “Anyway, I still should have told you. But you have to understand that it was just a really shitty situation, okay?” 

“I know,” I say, my eyes downcast. 

“I told them it was wrong. They should have told you about it from the start. I cursed out every one of those doctors when they told me, I swear. I gave it to ‘em straight. But all they gave me was a bunch of excuses about _risky procedures_ and your mental state. It was all bullshit,” he says. 

“It was,” I agree. “Do you know, um, _who_ went to such lengths to keep it from me?” 

The question has been plaguing me ever since Dr. Collins first hinted at that particular indiscretion. Whomever hid the news about the baby from me had to have had both a great deal of power and motive for doing so. Haymitch raises his eyebrows, glancing pointedly around the room. “I can think of a few candidates,” he says evasively. I get it. It is not safe to talk here, not where anyone might be listening in. He may be in league with the rebels here, but Haymitch doesn’t trust 13 anymore than he trusted the Capitol. It will have to be a conversation for another time. 

“I really am sorry,” Haymitch says again, and I know that he is entirely genuine. I’m still holding the snoozing baby, but I open my available arm to him and he accepts my slightly awkward embrace. 

We have both wronged each other, Haymitch and I. Me for asking him to defy his promise to Peeta during the Quell and then blaming him when Peeta was captured, and him for lying to me about the rebellion and the baby. But we understand each other. And in this moment, all is forgiven between us. That’s the nice thing about our relationship. It is not filled with needless sentiments and empty apologies. What happened happened. It’s over and now we can move past it. 

“She got a name?” he asks, breaking away from me and gesturing to the infant. 

“Not yet.” 

Thankfully, he does not push the issue. “You can’t tell the boy yet.” He rolls his eyes as he says it, and I feet the slightest bit better about having to keep Peeta in the dark with the knowledge that Haymitch does not agree with it either. 

“I know.” 

“Well, he’s all settled into my place. Made himself right at home, too. Cleaned it up and everything,” Haymitch says grudgingly. I felt bad when I learned that Peeta would have to move in with our mentor, as his hijacking episodes- though rare- are still too unpredictable for him to live safely with me. At least Haymitch has been forced into sobriety here, but from what I gather he is still a slob. “He’s been asking to see you.” 

“He has?” 

“Well, yeah. You haven’t seen him at all this week. He’s bound to wonder why.” 

“I’ve been… busy,” I say, looking at the baby. 

“Yeah, I bet you have. So, how’s motherhood treating you?” 

My first instinct is to glare at him and reply with a snappish retort of some kind, but there is no hint of sarcasm in Haymitch’s voice. In fact, he looks sincere and concerned, almost _fatherly_ even. “It’s okay,” I tell him, not entirely sure how to answer the question. It must be painfully obvious to him that I am nowhere near _okay_. I’m holding myself together by the tips of my fingers, but I do not have the words or the energy to convey the feeling to him. Once again, Haymitch does not require a lengthy explanation. He only nods in understanding. 

“Can I hold her?” 

His request startles me. I wouldn’t have pegged Haymitch as a baby person anymore than I saw myself as a mother. But when I pass the sleeping infant into his surprisingly tender embrace, he gazes down at her with something bordering on reverence. The lines of his face soften. His watery eyes brighten. Years of hard indifference and rampant alcoholism seem to melt away as he tucks her close to his chest, cradling her with more affection than I would have thought possible for anyone, let alone crass, surly Haymitch Abernathy. 

The sight brings another round of tears to my eyes. Only this time, they’re happy tears. 

There’s also a sneaking suspicion that I am only just starting to understand the effect this child will have. What she represents to this war. Peeta and I have unwittingly provided a brand new symbol for this rebellion; she is the very beginning of a new generation. And her future is what we are fighting for. 

_It’ll be worth it._  

Perhaps Haymitch only said that to calm me during my meltdown earlier, but the words swim to the forefront of my mind now. Moments such as these inspire me to think that the sentiment just might be true. That all of the uncertainty and trauma and pain _will_ be worth it someday. 

Something about this optimistic outlook and Haymitch’s visit seems to have rejuvenated me, the listlessness I felt only minutes earlier giving way to something that feels like a glimmer of hope.

“Uncle Haymitch.” The abrupt thought cuts into my musings. 

“What?” 

“That’s what I want her to call me when she grows up,” Haymitch says with a proud grin. “None of that ‘Grandpa’ shit. I’ll be the fun uncle that she can come to when her parents are being mean.” 

It takes some effort to hide my smile at this. “Are you volunteering your babysitting services then?” 

“Well… yeah. I guess I am.”

“You know you’ll have to be conscious for that, right?” 

His brows knit in response. “What are you saying?”   

“What I’m saying is if you really want to be a part of her life, then you have to stay sober, even after we leave here. My daughter will _not_ growing up around the town drunk.” I cross my arms firmly over my chest, unwilling to budge on this matter.  

Haymitch frowns at my ultimatum, looking pensively back to the baby. Probably contemplating whether it is worth the trade off.

“Deal,” he says.

 

*****

 

The next morning, I let out an audible groan as I examine the purple lettering of the schedule inked to my arm, finding that I’m expected to film a propo directly after breakfast. The last round of propos were filmed at Finnick and Annie’s wedding, which means they have been airing re-runs ever since. I suppose I should have seen this coming, but that doesn’t stop the thought of being shut in a room with Plutarch Heavensbee and his assistants all morning from filling me with dread.

The baby begins to whimper just then, my reminder that she’s ready for her morning meal. While she nurses, I inform Prim that she’ll have to babysit today, to which she is only too happy to oblige. Once the baby has had her fill, I burp and change her diaper, then give Prim a back- up bottle and a set of instructions, even though she doesn’t really need to hear them. She’s better at caring for her niece than I am. 

By the time I dash down for breakfast, the cafeteria is nearly empty. I bolt down the sad bowl of lukewarm oatmeal and serving of soggy peaches given to me, then hurry to the filming stage. 

When I arrive, it is to find Finnick in a heated argument with Plutarch while Johanna and Peeta crowd around Annie, who has both hands clamped firmly over her ears and appears to be humming something to herself. “What’s wrong?” I say, joining them. 

Johanna jerks a thumb back toward Plutarch. “He wants Annie to do an interview for the propo. Finnick is refusing to let him do it.” 

“Is that what we’re all doing here then? Giving interviews?” I ask, thinking that terrible as I may be with interviews, it is still preferable to dressing up and being directed around like a robot all day. 

“Yeah,” says Johanna. “All the victors. Haymitch and Beetee should be here in a few minutes.” 

Finnick approaches us then, sidling in between Peeta and Johanna to put an arm around his wife’s shoulders. Behind him, Plutarch looks as though he’s just suffered a huge disappointment. “I’m taking her back to our compartment. Be back in a few minutes,” Finnick says, leading Annie from the room. 

“Well, this changes things,” Plutarch sighs laboriously when they have gone. “The Odairs were going to be the focus of this propo. You know, the newlyweds who’ve come together and are thriving against all odds. But now…” he trails off, directing a pointed gaze toward Peeta and me. Instinctively, I look to Peeta in panic, realizing as I do so that it is the first time we’ve made eye contact in days. At this point, he’s probably thinking that I have indeed abandoned him. 

“We’re not doing it,” I say firmly, shifting my focus back to Plutarch and putting off the moment when I will actually have to _talk_ to Peeta, and somehow lie to his face about what I’ve been doing for the past week. Our relationship is strained enough as it is without the added pressure of the public eye. Our dance at the wedding for the propo was one thing, and even then Peeta nearly succumbed to a flashback. Staged interviews are an entirely different animal. They require a presence of mind that neither of us currently possesses. 

Plutarch raises his eyebrows. “Katniss, you had a deal with President Coin, remember? She has kept her promises to you. In return, you agreed to be our Mockingjay and you need to stick to that commitment.” The former Head Gamemaker issues no outright threats, but if his uncharacteristically stern tone promises anything, it is that he doesn’t have any qualms about appealing to Coin in order to make me cooperate. 

My stomach sinks. That’s it then. 

“It’s fine, Katniss,” Peeta speaks up beside me, and then addresses Plutarch. “We’ll do it.” Satisfied, Plutarch goes to greet the newly arrived Haymitch and Beetee, leaving me alone with Peeta.

He wastes no time confronting me. “Is something wrong?” Peeta demands. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, fully aware that it will not deter him. 

Sure enough, he rolls his eyes. “Please, Katniss I was hijacked, not blinded. You’ve been avoiding me ever since I got out of the hospital. Is this it, then? You’ve done your duty to me? You _fixed_ me just to make yourself feel better and now we’re over?” 

“No! No, Peeta, it’s not like that at all!” 

“Then tell me what’s wrong!” Every eye in the room turns to us at his outburst, but more pressing is the level of pure betrayal on Peeta’s face. It causes physical ache in my chest. 

“I… I want to,” I say as earnestly as possible, yet still trying to block everyone else out of the conversation. “I do. It’s just that… I can’t right now. You said you trusted me before, remember? Can you trust me now too? Please, Peeta?” 

He looks like he wants to say _yes_. I can see the beginnings of the word rolling around on his tongue, his lips moving to form the answer he wants to give, but his darkened eyes tell a different story. Somewhere deep inside where the epicenter of his fear lives, the tracker jacker venom still lingers. Making him doubt me. Question me. Fear me. He fists his hands at his sides; jaw clenched tight shut. Both tell- tale signs that nothing good is about to happen. 

_No_. We are not going backwards from here. Not when it has been such a struggle just getting to this point. Without warning, I throw my arms around Peeta. “I missed you,” I whisper in his ear so that no one but him can hear me. 

It takes a few, agonizing moments for him to respond. For his body to stop trembling, for his limbs to relax their rigid stance, but it works. He melts into my embrace, resting his chin on top of my head. “I’ve missed you, too.” 

I clutch him even tighter. 

We stay like that until Plutarch clears his throat to catch everyone’s attention. When we break apart, Peeta mouths _thank you_ to me. I give him a smile in return. 

“Okay, listen up,” Plutarch says. “Our objective today is to film propos specifically targeted toward District One, Two, and of course, the Capitol. Those are the only holdouts left. If we want them on our side, we need to appeal to their interests. There is nothing they idolize more than their victors, so your job simple. All you need to do is talk on camera about how the Hunger Games changed your life. Talk about nightmares, panic attacks- anything that will get these people to see the Games for what they are. We need for them to see you as humans, and as humans who have been damaged by the system.” 

Plutarch claps his hands together, glancing around at everyone as though he expects us all to gush over his brilliant idea, but his hopeful expression fades somewhat as he takes in the reluctant faces around him. Haymitch looks blatantly horrified, and Johanna, fuming. I can’t blame them. The former Head Gamemaker is essentially asking us to own up to our most vulnerable selves for the world to see. No wonder Finnick didn’t want Annie around for this.  

“I’ll go first then.” Finnick surprises me by breaking the stunned silence and stepping out of the circle of victors. “Might as well get this over with. Where do you want me?” The director, Cressida, escorts him into a chair in front of a simple backdrop. The prep crew run their fingers briefly through his hair and applies a touch of makeup to his cheeks. 

“Okay, Finnick,” Cressida says. “Tell us your story.” 

Finnick deadpans into the camera, looking decidedly away from everyone else in the room, and he begins. “President Snow used to… sell me… my body that is.” 

I listen on in disbelief as he describes abhorrent acts and shameful secrets- some involving the most influential people in the Capitol- weaving a sordid tale of lust and betrayal for the world to hear. Peeta appears equally disgusted as I, but Haymitch and the rest show no such surprise. When Finnick gets to the part about Snow’s tendency to use poison to kill his adversaries, my stomach pitches, the oatmeal I had for breakfast nearly coming back up on the spot. Snow tried to do that to me. And he very nearly succeeded. 

There’s a sudden pressure on my hand when Peeta gives it a squeeze. His raises his eyebrows, asking, _did he? Did Snow poison you too?_ I confirm the silent question with a nod of my head. His grip on my hand tightens and Peeta squares his shoulders, jaw set. 

Beetee takes the interview chair next. He mourns Wiress and admits to bugging the homes of Snow’s enemies under the threat of blackmail. Johanna talks very briefly about her sisters, killed when she would not submit to being a Capitol slave as Finnick had. Haymitch flatly refuses. 

“I agreed to help behind the camera _only_. That’s it. Put a drink in my hand and then _maybe_ I’ll do your interview. Until that happens, you’ll have to make due without me, Heavensbee.” 

With that, it is Peeta’s and my turn to sit in the spotlight. His arm settles protectively around my shoulders. For a second it occurs to me to tuck my feet up onto the couch and snuggle into his side, just like old times, but I push away the urge and try to focus on Cressida’s first question. 

“Let’s start at the beginning with the two of you,” the director says. “Peeta, we all know the story about how you fell for Katniss when you were only five years old, but I think we’re curious about you, Katniss. When did you fall in love with Peeta?” 

With all eyes on me, I have no choice but to tell my story. “When I first met Peeta, I was eleven years old and I was almost dead,” I begin. Over the course of several minutes, I disclose the whole thing, from my futile attempts to sell Prim’s baby clothes to Peeta’s mother chasing me away from the bakery trashcans in the rain. Everyone loves the story. In the background, the prep team sighs and dabs at their eyes with scraps of cloth. Even Johanna has a softened expression as I tell the tale of eleven- year- old Peeta taking a beating just to feed me. The act of kindness that saved my life and indebted me forever to the man sitting beside me. 

“Peeta, did you ever think that little girl in the rain would someday be your wife? That she would ever be pregnant with your child?” 

Cressida’s question throws Peeta, usually so calm and steady. “N-no. I never imagined it would turn out like this,” he says diplomatically. 

“You must be absolutely devastated,” she presses. “The whole country was, when we witnessed your loss.” 

“Yes,” Peeta replies through gritted teeth. “Even more so when I heard Finnick’s confessions today. President Snow is an evil man who indeed favors poison as a weapon. It is a cruel injustice that Katniss and our unborn child fell victim to his treachery.” 

There’s a collective gasp around the room. Haymitch glances at me, a wordless warning not to say anything in contradiction to the accusation. 

Cressida recovers from the shock first. “So you are holding President Snow accountable for the miscarriage of your child?” 

“Yes. He destroyed my family, and mine is just one of many he has torn apart. Now I want to see him destroyed. If you have the same goal, if Snow has ripped your family asunder, your loyalty should lie with the rebels. With District Thirteen. With Katniss. With me. With countless others who only want to secure a brighter future for ourselves and for our children. Stand with us, and together, we will declare our freedom.” 

Peeta’s speech is met with awed silence. His voice is clear and strong, his eyes bright and passionate. His hands do not possess even the slightest whisper of a tremor. In this moment, he is the steady, eloquent boy I remember. It is almost as though the hijacking never happened. 

“Come with me.” I grab Peeta’s hand and pull him toward the door, ignoring the objections of Plutarch, Cressida, and the camera crew. Haymitch jerks his head toward the exit, as if to say _go ahead_. 

His approval spurs me on, lets me know I’m making the right decision. I don’t care what the doctors say. I don’t care if they’ve deemed Peeta unstable. I trust him fully and that is all that matters. If I expect him to trust me in return, there can be no secrets between us.

It is time for Peeta to meet his daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been super busy lately, so thank you all for your patience and encouragement. I’m seriously blown away by all of your feedback and I’m honored that so many of you have taken the time to give it to me. As of right now, there will be two more chapters followed by an epilogue, and then this fic will be at an end. Feel free to express your thoughts in the comments, or as always, find me on tumblr as everlarkstoastbabies. 
> 
> xoxo


	14. Part 13

My braid smacks wildly along my back as I pull Peeta down the corridors behind me. “Katniss, what are you doing?” he asks, panting to keep up with me on his uneven gait. We’re attracting a few curious stares from people wandering about, but I’m too intent upon our destination to care. 

“There’s something I need to show you.” Something about my tone silences any further questions from him and he follows me obediently to my family’s compartment. There is not a sound to be heard from inside the room when I press my ear to the door, which must mean that Prim has put the baby down for her midmorning nap. 

“Katniss, what-“ 

“Peeta, I…I haven’t been completely honest with you,” I begin, without knowing quite what to say next. His eyes widen in alarm and he takes an automatic step back from me, no doubt anticipating the worst. _Shit_. Maybe I shouldn’t have led with that. How then, am I supposed to I explain this? 

“Just now during the interview, the way you were talking… it made me realize that we can’t have secrets from one another, you know? If I’m asking you to trust me, you deserve the truth.” 

My feeble attempt to assuage him does no good. Trepidation still lines Peeta’s face and for the second time today, I might just be in danger of losing him to a flashback. I extend a hand to caress his arm in a comforting gesture, but recoil before I reach him, not entirely sure that my touch would be welcome right now. I knew on the way here that doing this against the doctor’s orders this is stupid and reckless. Even suicide, maybe, depending on the outcome. I find myself half- wishing that I hadn’t brought him here, but it’s too late to turn back now. 

The longer I drag this out, the more agitated he seems to become. The pupils of his eyes dilate so that his deep blue irises are all but invisible. A vein throbs in his neck and I know what’s about to happen. The hijacking episode we’d narrowly dodged before the interview seems to be rising to the surface again now. There are only a few crucial moments left until it will become a near impossibility for him to regain control. 

“Peeta.” I try for a soothing tone first, trying to lull him out of the tainted memories. My hand finds his forearm at last to give it a gentle squeeze. “Peeta, please come back to me. It’s not real.” But his muscles contract under my grip and he grinds his teeth together, jaw clamped impossibly tight. 

“Not real, not real,” I say, more urgently this time. His arm resists my grip easily and extends a hand toward my throat. Whether to strangle me again or to snap my neck, I have no idea. Either way, I can’t fight him off physically. Not without a bow in my hand. My mind races, thinking that it wasn’t supposed to go this way. Thinking that I’ve been foolish in the extreme to bring him here. 

“Peeta!” I shout in a final act of desperation, my cracked voice bouncing along the empty hallway. But it is this that does the trick. It snaps him out of the nightmarish memories and brings him back to me. I watch as he visibly deflates in front of me, the venomous rage having sapped his strength. His whole form sags and he drops his head into his hands, defeated. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, clearly horrified at what he’d almost done. And then he begins to back away from me. Staggered steps that grow ever more rapid. 

“No, Peeta, wait! Please!” I beg him, and he stops cold halfway down the corridor. 

“Save it, Katniss,” he snaps. “I get it, okay? I don’t need to go through this again. It was bad enough the first time. I’ll just stay away from you from now on.” 

“What are you-“ And then I understand. Peeta thinks I’m abandoning him. Of course he does. What other explanation would there be for my absence lately? He thinks I’m going to tell him that I’ve moved on, or found someone else, or maybe just that I don’t love him, just like I did after our first Games. And though Peeta is more hardened now, his last vestiges of boyhood innocence having been stripped away by the most brutal of circumstances, it is the same broken- hearted expression that tore through my heart by the train tracks so long ago that he gives me now. Guilt consumes me when I think of that moment, and I wish more than ever that I could travel back in time and do it differently. 

I’m already wishing I had done _this_ moment differently. This is the moment that will change everything for us, and already I’ve managed to mess it up. 

Perhaps I should explain more, do something to ease his fears, but my mouth has suddenly gone too dry to speak. My intention was to ease him into it to give him a thorough understanding of the situation, but I’m quickly realizing that the clinical explanation the doctors gave to me is completely out of the question- I couldn’t give him that that even if I wanted to- and somehow, I don’t think he’d believe me if I told him _you have a daughter_ with no tangible proof. That leaves only one option. 

“It’s not what you think, I promise. Just come inside, Peeta. Please,” I beg, and with a look of utmost suspicion on his face, his curiosity wins out. It draws him back to me as though we’re complementary ends of a magnet. Before I lose my nerve, I swing open the front door of my compartment and pull him inside. 

Sure enough, Prim is perched on the couch with the sleeping infant nestled in her arms. Her surprised expression at my entrance morphs quickly to worry when she spots Peeta behind me. “It’s okay, Prim,” I say, holding out my arms for the baby. 

Luckily, the child remains sleeping during the transition from Prim’s embrace to mine. I press a gentle kiss to the top of her head and take a deep breath, inhaling her scent before turning back to Peeta. Oddly enough, it calms me and gives me the willpower to face Peeta. When I turn around, his eyes are three times their normal size as he stares at the interaction. 

“Meet your daughter, Peeta.” I hold my breath in anticipation of his reaction.

For a full sixty seconds, he remains stock-still. The exception is his hands, which clench and twitch erratically at his sides. And there’s a flash of _something_ in the depths of his eyes. Whether it is the beginnings of another flashback, or whether it is simply shock, I do not know. Instinctively, I take a step back and clutch the child closer to my chest. It’s a miracle she doesn’t wake from the impossibly loud pounding of my heart against her ear. Prim shifts closer to us in my peripheral vision, anticipating trouble. 

But Peeta stands his ground, his gaze volleying back and forth between the baby and me. It is torturous; having no idea what thoughts must be going through his head. Besides the obvious _who, what, when, why,_ and _how,_ there’s the tracker jacker venom to contend with as well. 

Finally, he controls the conflict within himself enough to speak. “I don’t… I don’t understand,” he says. “It’s not possible… in the jungle… you… we lost her.” His voice cracks as he says it and he stares at me beseechingly for an answer. 

“Can I try and explain?” I ask in a small voice, still not entirely confident that he won’t succumb to a venom-induced rage. Peeta merely nods his head in response. So I tell him everything I know to the best of my ability. From the poison I ingested prior to entering the arena to what little I understand of the artificial gestation process and how our daughter came to be here today. He is quiet through all of it, absorbing every single word. At some point during my speech, Prim evidently decides there is little danger to be found from Peeta’s reaction, and she slips soundlessly into the bedroom to allow us some privacy. 

“…And I asked for the DNA test. It was a perfect match. She’s ours.” When I finish my wholly inadequate explanation, Peeta he says nothing. The dead silence in the room is louder than any of the baby’s crying fits. It fills the cramped space, sucking the air from the room and crushing in on my eardrums. 

“Say something, Peeta. Please.” If he doesn’t, I might combust from the tension. 

“This is my daughter?” He says at last, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Yes.” 

“And this is your daughter?”

“Yes.” 

“She’s beautiful,” Peeta breathes, gazing at her with something that can only be described as pure adoration. Even love, though he has only just met her. It’s an improvement upon my initial reaction already, and I let myself breathe at last. My whole body relaxes, so blissfully relieved. Peeta takes a tentative step forward, raising a hand as he goes, as though to touch the baby.

Those hands, calloused from laboring over countless loaves of bread and scarred from torture; so talented with a paintbrush and skillful in crafting the most delicate and precise of bakery pastries. The same hands that once wrapped around my throat and promised the sweet release of death, that only minutes ago trembled and shook with barely suppressed rage and venom, reach out now with all the steadiness in the world to caress the smooth skin of our infant daughter. His hands are so large in comparison to her that I think he might be able to hold her in one palm. He could crush her easily with minimal effort if he so wished, and yet it is almost breathtaking how gingerly he touches her. As though she might shatter to pieces with the slightest touch. The pads of his fingers float over her tiny nose; over her brow furrowed in sleep, through the fine, dark hairs on her head.  The baby does not so much as stir in her slumber, remaining peacefully unaware that she is meeting her father for the very first time. “ _Wow_ ,” Peeta whispers, completely immersed in awe.   

“I know,” I say. It still hits me sometimes- the utter disbelief that she is here. The impossibility that Peeta and I created this life. This living, breathing, person who will be completely dependent on _us_ to raise her. To keep her as whole and healthy and safe as she is now. It is both a great burden and an incredible blessing. And though at times it still feels like an unbearable pressure upon my shoulders, I have come to realize that it is a good weight to bear. 

“What’s her name?” 

“I haven’t named her yet,” I admit. 

Peeta tears his eyes away from the infant to look at me. “Really?” 

“I couldn’t do it without you,” I shrug. “Prim’s been calling her ‘Baby Mellark’ for a while now. If we don’t do something about that soon, she’ll be stuck with it for life.” 

Peeta gives a soft chuckle. “Somehow I don’t think that would be a very easy name for her to take out onto the playground with the other kids, do you?” 

“No, I don’t think so,” I agree with a grin. “Did you ever think of a name you might like… you know, when I was pregnant?” 

Peeta inclines his head, biting his lip thoughtfully. “I don’t remember much from that time, honestly. Those few days are mostly a blur.  The only thing I can recall distinctly is fear- knowing that I was going to die in the Games. Knowing that I’d never see you again. Knowing I’d never get to meet our child. Baby names weren’t exactly at the top of my list.” I understand what he means. I felt the exact same way at the time, but I can’t help the slight disappointment that surges through me. I’ve been holding out hope that Peeta would have a suggestion. “But you know,” he says. “I think a name should be something special and unique. Nothing too ostentatious or gaudy.... It should represent the future and the kind of person you want your child to grow into.” 

“So you’re saying no to ‘Glimmer’ or ‘Flavius’ then?” I tease, a fake pout pursing my lips.

Peeta scrunches up his nose. “ _Definitely_ not,” he says. 

I laugh and shake my head, feeling so much lighter-almost giddy, even- now that Peeta knows and I have nothing more to hide from him. As unconventional as our circumstances are, in this moment, I feel like we are a real family for the very first time. And while we are no closer on a name, he _has_ given me something to consider. Rejecting Prim’s suggestion to name the baby after Rue was easy- I don’t want to start my future by looking to the past. A dead girl’s name is far too weighty for an infant to take on. Now I’m faced with the challenge of giving her a title that is special and meaningful and all her own. It is not proving to be an easy task, but suddenly nothing seems too difficult to accomplish now that Peeta is here to do it with me. 

Peeta looks down again, enraptured by the tiny being slumbering in my arms. His blue eyes drink in the sight of his child the way Haymitch salivates over a bottle of Ripper’s signature booze. Like an addict who will never get enough. I can’t blame him. It is a feeling I have become thoroughly accustomed to over the past week. 

“Can I hold her?” 

For the second time, this request gives me pause. I’m reluctant to let the baby leave the safety of my embrace, but Peeta has never been steadier than he is right now. His eyes are the clear blue of a cloudless summer day and his hands hold no lasting sign of a tremor. I can see nothing of the hijacking victim left within him. Just as he displayed so eloquently in front of the cameras only minutes ago, his mind is sound. So in answer, I shift the bundle towards him.

He holds out his arms eagerly, and I nestle the baby in the crook of his elbow, adjusting his arm so that he’s properly supporting her head. The movement wakes the baby, who opens her glassy blue eyes for Peeta to see for the first time. I think his heart stops in that moment. His matching eyes well with tears as he sees such a distinctive feature of himself in his daughter. A wide, genuine smile creeps onto his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. 

My eyes fill with tears, too. Peeta looks like such a natural, standing with his baby in his arms. He’s relaxed and the calmest I’ve seen him since his rescue from the Capitol. For her part, the baby stares up at the unfamiliar man holding her with curiosity. She blinks a few times, her little mouth stretching open in a wide yawn. 

“Hi, little one,” Peeta whispers. “I’m your daddy. It’s so nice to meet you.” 

In response, the child begins to fuss. Soft whimpers escape her mouth, which escalate quickly into harsh cries. Peeta looks up at me in alarm, panic reminiscent in his eyes. I know he’s remembering the jabberjays in the arena, just as I always do when this happens. I don’t know whether that memory will ever stop haunting me, but I do know the one trick that has proven successful to calm both the baby and me when she cries. I sing her a lullaby. 

 _Deep in the meadow, under the willow_  

_A bed of grass, a soft green pillow_

It is almost magical, the instant effect the song has on her. Her whimpers begin to soften at once; the tears stop falling from her eyes. I move closer to Peeta, stroking her rosy cheek with my finger. 

_Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes_

_And when again they open, the sun will rise_

Her eyelids flutter closed, her face turning to burrow into her daddy’s warm, broad chest. Just as I myself have done on countless occasions.

_Here it’s safe, here it’s warm_

_Here the daisies guard you from every harm_

_Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true_

_Here is the place where I love you._

“Willow,” Peeta says suddenly.

“What?”

“Willow,” he repeats. “She stopped crying right when you sang the word. So, I just thought… let’s name her Willow.” 

I gaze at the baby snuggled against Peeta’s chest, with her pink cheeks and puckered lips and tuft of soft, dark hair. _Willow_. Peeta knows a little bit about those trees from helping me with my family’s plant book. I recall having him redraw the leaves several times to get the details exactly right. They’re magnificent trees. Soft and flexible, yet incredibly resilient- important qualities for a child growing up in this uncertain world. I’ve gathered willow bark and leaves countless times for Mom and Prim to use as medicinal supplements. Many Seam families have relied on their edible blossoms in times of desperate starvation. They are useful plants, just like katniss. 

 _Willow_. I say the name in my mind, tasting it, letting it resonate with the little person before me. 

 _Willow Mellark_. It fits her perfectly, of course. It is special and unique, just like Peeta said a name should be. A step into our future together, away from our turbulent past. It falls into place like a long lost puzzle piece, completing our little family picture. _Katniss, Peeta, and Willow_. _The Mellark family_. Suddenly it seems as though there is not another more appropriate name in the world for our daughter. The corners of my mouth twitch up into a grin as I look back at Peeta. 

“It’s perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if you’ve ever seen Willow used as a name for Katniss and Peeta’s daughter before. I had many names in mind, but in the end I went for symbolism over originality. I know it is also rumor that Suzanne Collins herself confirmed this name, but I don't know whether that is official or not. In any case, I chose it for very specific reasons, which I hinted at in the story, but the full explanation is too long and involved to include there. I have included it after my author's note, under the heading "What's in a name?" So keep reading if you're interested, or skip over it if you wish!
> 
> I must mention that this story is nearing an end. There is one more chapter after this, followed by an epilogue. Thank you for reading and reviews are love. xoxo
> 
>  
> 
> What’s in a name?
> 
> Initially, Willow sparked my interest as a name for Katniss and Peeta’s daughter because of the song in the books that goes, Deep in the Meadow/Under the willow… I like the fact that the name appears in canon and therefore it feels more natural to me than some name randomly chosen name by yours truly. Willow also continues the traditional use of plant names that are common in THG (specifically in the Everdeen family) without using the name of one of the deceased characters (which I firmly believe Katniss would never do!) When I researched the namesake, it seemed even more perfect to me:
> 
> -Willow trees produce edible flowers called ‘catkins,’ obviously similar to Katniss… I’ve even seen ‘catkin’ used as her nickname in a few fan fictions!  
> -They are known for their toughness and tenacity to life; qualities that suit both Katniss and Peeta, and by extension, their offspring.  
> -The bark and leaves possess healing properties, specifically to cure aches and headaches. It is a useful plant, just like katniss.  
> -Willow is used make charcoal for drawing… you’re welcome, Peeta!  
> -The willow tree is associated with ghosts in Japanese tradition. It is said that a ghost will appear where a willow grows. I’m choosing to interpret this myth a little differently. Katniss and Peeta have so many ghosts from their past, but in their place grows something wonderful: a life together and a family. Willow represents Katniss and Peeta’s future, their ability to move on. She takes the place of the ghosts and fills their lives with joy and meaning.


	15. Part 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes to you later than I had hoped, and on the heels of a major laptop disaster. I won’t bore you with the details, but basically my hard drive crashed. Completely unexpectedly and out of nowhere. I lost everything- all my photos and unfinished writing projects- including this story. It’s completely my fault for not backing up my work, but there it is. There’s a potential to recover some of it, but I’m still waiting on my computer guy for the news. 
> 
> In the meantime, I rewrote this chapter as quickly as possible so I could update before I leave for my vacation later this week, and I wanted to throw a bone to my ever- patient readers. You have all been so wonderful and encouraging and I couldn’t be more grateful for every one of you. All I ask is a little more patience while I rewrite the remainder of this story, because despite this setback, it will be finished. 
> 
> Once again, thank you for your patience and please enjoy this chapter!

If one thing about Peeta has never failed to captivate me, it is his hands. The way they move to complete a given task, strong and calloused, yet always skilled and impossibly gentle. Whereas I need a bow and quiver of arrows slung over my shoulder, his hands are the only tools he needs. From their prowess in the bakery to creating beautiful works of art- _not to mention_ , I think, a blush coloring my cheeks, _his ability to touch my body and bring me to ecstasy with only his fingers-_ Peeta’s hands are his best tools. It should not have surprised me, therefore, that those hands are no less skillful when it comes to changing diapers. I watch him in slight amusement as he folds the cloth in all the right ways, then deftly pins the sides of the diaper to secure it to the squirming baby. 

“You picked that up fast,” I muse. 

Peeta grins and scoops the freshly changed baby from the floor. “I guess that’s what happens when you’re doing it twelve times a day.” 

“That’s for sure,” I yawn widely. But I can’t deny that it bothers me slightly, the ease with which Peeta has slipped into parenthood. Anyone who met him before his hijacking could have predicted what an amazing father Peeta would be, myself included. He’s probably wanted children since he was one himself. While I was in the woods every day, struggling to survive and vowing to never have a family of my own, it is not difficult to imagine little Peeta Mellark, product of an abusive home and the boy who wanted to share a bunk bed with his school yard crush, wishing only for his own family to love. But who would have thought Peeta would flourish in a situation like this? He’s been hijacked and tortured, but he’s fighting back against the venom and lies that once dominated his mind. And he’s winning. 

As for me, I feel as though I’ve been thrown in the deep end of a lake without any swimming lessons first, and told not to drown. I’m doing my best, but I’m barely treading water. 

“Katniss?” His voice breaks through my thoughts, and I get the feeling he’s called my name more than once. 

“Sorry, what?” 

“I asked you what you wanted to do next.” During the limited amounts of time that Peeta has spent with Willow and me, this has been his constant refrain. His excitement in learning how to take care of our daughter has not waned in the slightest since he met her. Most mothers would be grateful to have such a caring and attentive father to their children, but it adds to my resentment more that anything. His sense of duty to Willow only heightens my own feelings of inadequacy. Yet another reason that I will never deserve Peeta. 

Instead of answering his question, I blurt, “Why does it come so _easily_ to you?” 

He stares at me, confused. “Why does what come easily to me, Katniss?” 

“Being a parent! Taking care of a baby you didn’t ask for! I don’t get how you’re so calm all of the sudden when I’m hardly keeping it together. How are you doing it? It’s not _fair_.” I clap my hands over my mouth, horrified at what I just said. Who am I to talk about what’s fair when the boy sitting in front of me was tortured and corrupted, largely for my benefit? 

“Peeta, I’m so-“ 

“It’s okay,” he says, cutting off my apology.

“No, I really mean it. I shouldn’t have said that.” I cast my eyes down, unable to look at him. 

“You’re right though,” he mutters. “It’s not fair. Nothing in our lives has been fair since our reaping. But you know what? We keep rising above it. We’ve overcome every single thing they’ve thrown at us. And this little girl here-” he glances down at the baby in his arms - “She’s my reason to keep on going. Every time I look at her, I see our future, and that’s enough to stop the voices and the flashbacks. It’s enough to keep me fighting.” 

I pick at a nonexistent speck of lint on the floor, absorbing his words. Of course he would know the exact right thing to say. “I told you I’d be a lousy mother,” I grumble. 

Peeta chuckles, shaking his head. ”Katniss, you’re an amazing mother. Look at all you’ve done so far. You put your life, even your own _recovery_ , on hold to take care of Willow when I couldn’t be there to help you. And now you’ve taught me everything I know.” I look up at him and meet his infectious grin with a small one of my own. “I think you’re just tired, is all,” Peeta says, and I know that he’s eyeing my stringy, unwashed hair and the purple bags that have taken up residence under my eyes. Evidence of the fact that I’ve barely had time to sleep, much less shower, in the past couple of days. 

“Tell you what, why don’t I stay here tonight?” Peeta’s face is alight with the thought, but I’m hesitant to agree. He’s still living with Haymitch for the time being, which is the reason I’ve still been on my own a lot with the baby. In his defense, Peeta seems more stable that ever before. He is certainly more stable than _me_ at the moment, but what if…  what if something went wrong and he did have a flashback? What if he thought I was a mutt and tried to hurt me again? What if he tried to hurt _Willow_? If I let that happen while I was asleep and unable to defend her, I could never live with myself. 

Peeta, seeming to sense my inner conflict, says, “It’s not like we’ll be alone, you know. I’ll sleep on the couch, and your mom and Prim will be back after dinner.” I can tell that it takes some effort to keep the bitterness in his voice to a bare minimum, not that I can blame him. He _is_ her father after all. In normal circumstances, he’d have every right to stay and take care of her. But nothing Peeta and I have done in our relationship has ever been considered “normal.” 

“I don’t know…” 

“ _Please_?” He exaggerates the plea, lifting Willow’s face to his cheek and pursing his lips together in a faux pouty expression. He tickles her side- something he has learned is a full proof way to bring a smile to her face- and this time she even gives a squeak of unmistakable laughter. Peeta knows all too well that it is a dirty attempt at manipulation, and it works. The sight of them together, matching blue eyes and rosy cheeks, melts any of my lingering resolve.

My intention after agreeing to allow Peeta to stay on the couch for the night is to take a shower, leaving him to deal with bedtime- which, more often than not involves rocking Willow to sleep and then _very_ gently depositing her into her crib so as not to jostle her back awake- but the scratchy gray blankets of my bed on the way to the bathroom have never looked more inviting than they do now. _Just for a minute_ , I tell myself, stretching out onto the thin mattress, my heavy eyelids falling closed almost immediately. _Just for a quick rest_ … 

When I’m shaken awake, I know instantly that I’ve slept for far too long. A blanket slips from my shoulders when I sit bolt upright in the bed, my heart pounding rapidly. A looming figure towers over me and ice- cold panic seizes my chest before I realize it’s only Peeta. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t want to wake you, but I think she’s hungry.” He nods toward Willow tucked into the crook of his elbow. 

“It’s okay,” I say, scooting up to a sitting position and reaching for the baby. Peeta settles her in my lap, where she immediately roots around hungrily for my breast, only to be impeded in her search. I’d fallen asleep so quickly that I hadn’t even had time to undress. I’m still in my day clothes, shoes and all. I manage to unbutton my top one- handed, but unhooking my bra is impossible with my arms full of baby. “Could you…” I ask Peeta, motioning toward the bra. 

“Oh! Right. Of course.” It’s dark in the room, but I can practically hear the blush in his voice, and I am positive that his cheeks must be flaming red. Mine certainly are. When his hand slips under the back of my shirt and deftly unhooks the bra, I try to ignore the tingles of heat that blossom where his fingers brush my bare skin. 

Once the barrier is gone, Willow nuzzles into my chest and latches on right away. I lean my head back against the headboard and to my surprise, Peeta sinks down onto the mattress beside me and does the same. We’re mere inches apart from each other; so close that I can feel the body heat radiating from him, something I’ve been missing in my bed for a very long time. Resisting the urge to snuggle up next to him, I ask, “Did Mom and Prim get back?”

Peeta yawns before responding. “Yeah, they came in a little while after you fell asleep. They were both just happy to see you finally getting some rest. It’s about 2 AM now. I wanted to let you sleep as long as possible, but this is one area where I’m not really all that useful.”

“You’ll get your chance,” I grin into the darkness. “When she starts on solids. Then she’s all yours. I’m sure you’ll be stuffing her with all kinds of pastries the first chance you get, anyway.” 

He chuckles and nudges my arm playfully. “I can stuff you with pastries, too, you know. Cheese buns, right?” 

“Yeah.” Though I don’t mention it to Peeta, the fact that he remembers this minute detail about me is enough to lift my spirits more than just about anything else. 

“Katniss, can I ask you something?” His voice is laced with trepidation now, and the tone of it stirs up a sudden swell of anxiety in my stomach. 

“Okay,” I say nervously. 

“It’s, well, its something I asked you once before, but you never really answered me.” I remain silent, waiting with bated breath for his question. “We were talking a few weeks ago, about what we did on the beach in the arena, remember?” I nod my head, thinking hard. The conversation is vaguely familiar to me, though it is a struggle to remember exactly when it took place. Then it hits me. We were in the midst of that discussion when my mother interrupted and I was given news that changed my life forever. News that completely wiped everything else from my mind that day.

“Well, I have this… this _vision_ of you in my head of you saying you regret making love to me, telling me that you only ever slept with me because you felt sorry for me,” Peeta says, and though I can’t see his face, the downtrodden tone of his voice is enough to break my heart, especially because nothing could be further fron the truth. “You swore to me that my vision wasn’t real, that you really didn’t regret it, but when I asked you _why,_ you never answered.”

_Oh_. Has my lack of an answer been torturing Peeta all this time? Is this what still has some part of him doubting me, preventing us from moving forward?

“It’s because I love you, Peeta,” I say boldly, throwing caution to the wind. “I’ll never regret anything I did to prove that to you. I was never… _intimate_ with you because I felt sorry for you. And when we were in that arena… we thought we were going to die. We loved each other. We _wanted_ each other. And that was all that mattered at the time.” 

Peeta contemplates this for a long while before responding. “I must have loved you a lot,” he whispers. 

“You did.” My voice cracks and I fall silent.

“I think I still might. Love you, I mean,” he says quietly. I look into his blue eyes shining in the darkness, and I hope with every fiber of my being that what he says is real. Because I can’t survive without him at this point. He reaches for my free hand and encloses it in his big, warm one. The gesture says more than words ever could. We remain like that until Willow finishes nursing. 

“I’ve got it from here,” Peeta murmurs when she is done, taking the baby from me and draping her over his shoulder. He pats her back with the heel of his hand, exactly like I showed him earlier. “Why don’t you get some more rest?” My head hits the pillow before he even finishes the sentence, and he leaves the room with Willow, shutting the door behind him. Despite the fact that Peeta is no longer lying next to me, the sense of steady calm that exudes from his very presence stays with me, and my usual nightmares do not disturb my slumber tonight.

*****

When next I wake, it is not to the hungry cries of a screaming Willow to which I have grown so accustomed, but to my own biological clock. Being this fully alert and rested is an unusual feeling for me, and the place feels eerily silent in the absence of her cries. Rising from my bed, I tiptoe to the doorway and peer out into the living room. Sure enough, Peeta is still there, fast asleep and stretched out on the couch, bare feet dangling over the edge. One hand behind his head acting as a pillow, and the other protectively holding the tiny figure resting on his abdomen. Willow. Curled up and smaller than ever when compared to Peeta’s broad chest. Her whole body rises and falls in sync with the motions of his deep breathing. Both are completely oblivious to the world and the most at peace I’ve ever seen them. I stand in my doorway drinking in the scene for a long time before Peeta’s eyes finally slide open.

 

“Morning,” he says when he spots me watching, voice still thick with sleep. 

“Should I be jealous?” I tease.

“Huh?” 

“That another girl is hogging my spot,” I clarify. 

Peeta responds with a sly grin. “If you want your spot back, come and get it.” 

Behind the teasing lies a very real challenge; one sends a pleasant shiver down my spine and triggers a long- dormant stab of hunger within me. There’s something inherently… well, _sexy_ about Peeta in daddy- mode; I can’t deny it. Peeta’s grin fades and he takes on a suddenly serious expression, his eyes hooded in the way I know so well. I’m very much mistaken if his mind isn’t in the exact same place as mine right now. But the fact that Mom and Prim are still here and could potentially walk in at any minute stops me from acting on any sudden impulse. To cover the awkward moment, I offer to go and pick up breakfast before Willow wakes, to which Peeta readily agrees. 

The cafeteria is already abuzz with the sounds of chatter and cutlery clinking on plates when I arrive, but isn’t until I’m standing in line for my trays that I notice it. That stares. The pointing. The whispers. All of them aimed at me. A sickening feeling invades my stomach and suddenly I am not hungry anymore. This is it then. Word must have gotten around about Willow. The child of the star-crossed lovers that survived against all odds. 

A miracle. A freak. A weapon.

Of course I knew there was no hiding such a thing forever and now that people clearly know, a whole new set of fears invades my mind. What if other doctors or scientists want to study her, the medical miracle that wasn’t supposed to exist? And Plutarch and the rest will surely be clamoring to put her in propos like Peeta and me. No. I’ll never let it happen. If there is one thing I can promise myself with utmost certainty, it is that my child will never be subjected to the same blinding spotlight of exploitation that Peeta and I have lived under for the past two years. 

With the fresh worries heavy on my mind, I grab the breakfast trays as quickly as possible and rush from the cafeteria. The guard, already aware of my special circumstances, allows me to pass without argument. 

Back in the compartment, I relay none of my newfound fears to Peeta, who scarfs down his breakfast while I merely pick at my lukewarm oatmeal. Still, he can sense that something is wrong now that my bright disposition from earlier has been replaced with the weighty silence that hangs in the air. 

“I have an appointment with Dr. Aurelius this morning,” he pipes up, and when I don’t respond, he continues slowly, “He, uh, he asked me to tell you that his door is always open if you ever need to talk.” The expression on my face must show that I don’t think fondly of the fact that Peeta is suggesting I need therapy, because he goes immediately on the defensive. “It wouldn’t be a bad thing, Katniss! He just thought, you know, that you might need a little assistance coping with… everything. I meant what I said yesterday, about you putting your own recovery on hold for me and Willow. That was so incredibly brave, but now that I can help, you need to put yourself first. I think Dr. Aurelius could really help you. Please just consider it,” he begs. 

“I’ll… consider it,” I say, thought I still don’t care much for the idea. However, if Peeta is going out on a limb to suggest it, then he must strongly believe that it would be beneficial for me. And I will consider it, if only for him.

He leaves in a better mood for his own appointment after my vow to contemplate therapy, kissing Willow on the forehead and giving me a quick hug with the promise of returning with lunch afterward. Soon after he goes, Mom and Prim emerge from their rooms and leave for breakfast, and then the hospital and school, respectively. 

Once again, I’m left alone with the baby. But it’s not so scary anymore. “We’ll be okay, won’t we?” I say to Willow. She stares back up at me with her innocent blue eyes, mouth slightly ajar. I slip my finger into her fist so that she can hold tightly to it. “Yeah. You and me, we’ll be just fine,” I coo, bouncing her slightly in my arms. 

Just then a knock at the door startles us both. My stomach sinks when I swing open the door to reveal the person behind it. 

“Gale?” 

“Hey, Katniss.” After a brief moment during which I’m frozen in shock, I step back and beckon him into the room, registering the perfectly pressed gray military uniform and closely- cropped haircut as he does so.

“Um, this is-“ I stutter, gesturing to the baby in my arms.

“I know. I heard about that,” he says. “Word gets around.”

It’s just as I suspected then. If Gale knows, I’m sure the entire district is talking about it as well. “I just wanted to stop by and tell you that I’m leaving for District Two. The base of all their operations is centered in a mountain and our soldiers are having trouble penetrating it. President Coin requested me personally.” His chest puffs out proudly. 

Whatever reaction he was expecting from me, it certainly wasn’t the indifferent “Oh,” that slips from my mouth. His face falls and he stares at the tops of his scuffed boots. 

“I just thought you should know.” 

I nod. “Well, thank you for telling me. I hope… I mean… stay safe, okay?”

He gives a consenting grunt, followed by a silence loaded with everything left unsaid that settles between us. Of all the times I would welcome a crying fit from Willow, she chooses this moment to remain quiet, gurgling contentedly in the cradle of my elbow. “She looks like him, you know,” Gale says abruptly. “The, uh, baby-“ 

“Willow,” I interrupt. 

“Yeah, well, she has his eyes.”

I glance down warmly at my daughter. “She does,” I agree, relaxing a little. It even occurs to me to ask Gale if he’d like to hold her, but before I can ask, he sucks all the air from the room with his next comment. 

“So I guess that’s the final nail in the coffin for us then, huh?” My mouth falls open and I gape at him in disbelief, but he is apparently oblivious to my reaction because he doesn’t stop there. “You know, when you first got to 13, I thought I might still have a chance with you. Mel- I mean _Peeta_ was gone and I thought… well, if he couldn’t give you a baby, then maybe I could.” 

Recalling the long weeks of silence between us up until this point, it is hard for me to believe he still thought there might be something even resembling romance left in our relationship. When Peeta was gone I needed Gale to be there for me as a friend, not a replacement lover. He couldn’t even do that. 

“It… it was never about who could give me a _baby_ , Gale. I never wanted children. You know that better than anyone.” It pains me to say it with my daughter here in my arms, but it’s the truth. 

“You want _his_ baby,” Gale accuses. 

“Yes,” I whisper. “Very much.”

“But not mine.” It’s not a question, but a confirmation. And I know that this is it. This is the breaking point. The crack in our friendship that surfaced after my first Hunger Games has been growing steadily wider ever since, and now it has grown so wide that it is impossible to bridge the distance any longer. 

“I should go. The hovercraft for Two leaves in an hour and I haven’t said goodbye to my family yet.” Gale’s steely eyes have nothing on the hardness in his voice. 

“Please don’t do this, Gale.” He turns away from me anyway, ignoring my half- hearted plea and heading for the front door. “I miss you! I miss having you as my friend,” I call after him. 

He turns back slowly to face me. “The problem is, I don’t think I’ll ever want to be just friends with you, Katniss.” We stare at each other for several long seconds, Gale’s hand tensing around the doorknob. 

“Goodbye, Catnip.” 

My own whispered goodbye has hardly made it past my lips when he slips out the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you for reading. I worked hard to ensure that this version of the chapter lived up to the original I had written. I can only hope I succeeded. Also, I lied- there will be one more chapter following this, and then the epilogue. I need a little longer to wrap this up that I had anticipated. If you are so inclined, please leave a review with your thoughts on this chapter. Reading your comments is always the highlight of my week. 
> 
> Till next time, xoxo.


	16. Part 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in posting this chapter. To my amazing reviewers and readers sending PMs encouraging my to update… I am so incredibly grateful for your interest and I promise I hear you cries! Life has been much busier than I anticipated when I began posting this story, and time for fanfic has been scarce. If you’re still with me on this, I have nothing to say but endless thank yous for your patience and support. I couldn’t have done it without you, my faithful readers. It’s been a long time coming, but here is the final chapter of "More Than Words."

Dr. Aurelius’s office is one of the nicer places in District 13. It is modestly sized, but the furniture is comfortable and the room is decorated in soothing neutrals rather than the sterile steel that abounds everywhere else. 

It makes it easier to spend time here. 

“And does that bring up any specific emotions for you, Katniss?” 

“Um, I don’t know. I guess… I feel like I should care more than I do. I feel bad for _not_ feeling bad, if that makes any sense.”

Dr. Aurelius nods. It threw me off when he asked about Gale’s departure and how I was coping with that, but as I told him truthfully, I haven’t had much time or energy to put a great deal of thought into the matter. Gale and I chose our separate ways long before we came to District 13, and I have my own future to look toward now. 

Taking up Peeta on his suggestion of therapy was not an easy decision, but the look of beaming pride on his face when I told him I’d try it confirmed that I made the right choice. Now in my third session with the doctor, I’m still not seeing much of a difference. Aurelius keeps insisting that it will take time to start “feeling like myself again.” Whatever that means for me.   

“It’s natural to drift apart from people as time goes on. People change and grow. I just want to make sure this isn’t a trigger for you,” he says. 

I shake my head. I miss Gale, but it is more of a nostalgic longing for what we had before all of this happened. Back when times were simple. When our relationship was based in the mutual need to survive. In any case, his parting words to me only proved that our friendship is far beyond repair. 

“Is there anything else you’d like to talk about before we adjourn for today then?” the doctor asks.

“Actually… yes,” I say, leaning in conspiratorially. “I was wondering if you could tell me how Peeta is doing… If you think his progress is going well, if he’s improving…”

“You know I can’t discuss other patients, Katniss,” he says sternly. 

“I know! I know, I’m just… I’m still worried about him,” I admit sheepishly. 

The doctor sighs, eyeing me from over the top of his clipboard. “I see what you see; a troubled young man who is still prone to confusion and bouts of anger. He’s lost so much, suffered so greatly, but he’s strong. And he has your support. I believe…” and here he hesitates, no doubt contemplating how much to tell me, “I can’t say that he’ll ever fully recover, but what he has achieved so far is nothing short of miraculous. There are many reasons to be optimistic about his potential.”

“You really think he’ll be okay?” 

Dr. Aurelius smiles. “I do.” 

The renewed hope gives me a sense of buoyancy I never knew was possible for me. There is even a bounce to my step and a tiny smile on my face all the way back to my compartment, and at least for the time being, I feel a little lighter. Things are finally looking up. Peeta’s getting better. I’m getting better. We are on our way towards becoming a real family. 

Prim squeals a delighted, “Mommy’s home!” to Willow when I walk through the door. It still takes me aback when I’m addressed like this, but I have to admit, the title _is_ growing on me. Automatically, my hands reach for the baby, and she snuggles into my embrace contentedly when Prim hands her to me. 

“How was your session?” asks Prim. She has been very keen on learning about my appointments with Dr. Aurelius, both out of concern for me and because working with Peeta and the traumatized soldiers in the hospital has inspired her to take an interest in the anatomy of the mind. I think Prim would make an excellent psychiatrist someday. 

I shrug in response to her. “It was okay. Nothing groundbreaking.” 

“Stick with it for a while, Katniss. I told you, staying positive is the best thing you can do right now.” 

“I _did_ get some good news today,” I offer. Prim raises her eyebrows. “Dr. Aurelius thinks that Peeta’s going to be okay. He said I should be optimistic about his recovery.” 

Prim grins widely. “Of course he’s going to be okay. It’s _Peeta_. He loves you.” 

“Peeta’s not so sure about that anymore, though. He told me so.” I cast my eyes down at the baby, trying not to let the lingering uncertainty in that department bring me down. 

“Give him time, Katniss. I’ve never seen any two people more in love than the pair of you.” 

“We were faking it most of the time,” I remind Prim pointedly. 

Prim shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Maybe, but that baby in your arms? That’s _real_. She’s real and she’s beautiful and she’s proof that you and Peeta love each other. Peeta’s not gone forever. He’ll come back to you.”

 

***** 

Prim’s sage words are still resonating in my mind as I head to my next appointment of the day, this one for Willow. I’m so lost in thought that I jump a little to find Peeta waiting for me when I arrive at Dr. Collin’s office with the baby.

“Hi,” he greets us, kissing Willow on the forehead and then moving in to kiss my cheek.  The spot tingles where his lips linger for just a second too long. “Therapy this morning?” 

“Mm hmm,” I nod. A smile quirks his lips, but before he can inquire further, Dr. Collins opens her door and beckons us into the room, instructing me to place Willow on the scale, just as we’ve done each and every visit. 

“5 pounds, 11 ounces, and…” Dr. Collins stretches a measuring tape over Willow from head to tiny little foot, “18 inches long. A little small for a three- week- old, but she has gained some weight and the results from her blood work came back fine, so all things considered, she’s very healthy,” she says, offering Peeta and me a warm smile. “She might take a little longer to catch up to other children her age in the growth department, but if you keep doing everything right, she’ll be there in no time.” 

The doctor’s reassurances allow me to breathe a sigh of relief. When I first learned that Willow would require weekly check-ins, I panicked immediately. I quickly found out that this kind of medical care is standard here in 13, but growing up in District 12, visits to a doctor were a luxury most people could not afford. As a result, they often ended up on our doorstep to see my mother. My first experience dealing with actual doctors was during the Hunger Games, and I have harbored a general mistrust for them ever since. But Dr. Collins is always warm and reassuring when we come to see her. I’ve grown to truly respect her, probably more so than any of the other medical professionals I’ve met here. 

“And how is little Willow eating?” Dr. Collins strokes the baby’s dark hair with a finger. “Is she nursing regularly?” 

“Yes,” I groan. I’ve gotten used to the sore and weighty breasts by now, not to mention the eternally chapped nipples. My mother wanted to make a salve for me, but much to my dismay, none of the herbs she needs are available underground. 

The doctor gives me a consoling grin. “Stick with it. At the very least for the first six months, preferably a year- even longer if you wish- and you can begin introducing some solids in addition to your milk along the way. I promise it will be worth it. You’ll get to see this little one grow up strong and healthy.” Willow chooses that moment to let out a delightful coo, as if in agreement.

“There’s only one more thing I’d like to ask before I let you take her home,” Dr. Collins says, glancing between Peeta and me. “How are you both doing with this situation? I know it happened so suddenly and introducing a new baby into your life isn’t easy on a relationship even at the best of times… Have you been taking any time for yourselves at all?” 

Peeta and I look at each other, cheeks burning. The truth is that we’ve spent very little time alone together since Willow came to us. The doctor seems to sense this, because she continues on without an answer from either of us. “A healthy relationship between the parents can make all the difference in a child’s upbringing. It’s important to work on yourselves, too. Just something to keep in mind.” 

“Thank you, Doctor,” Peeta says, flashing her one of his trademark winning smiles. “Katniss and I will be sure to remember that.” He scoops up Willow from the exam table. “Now, if that’s all…” 

“Of course. I’ll see you next week,” says Dr. Collins. I keep my eyes averted from her searching gaze as I follow Peeta out the door. 

The walk back to my compartment is a quiet one with both Peeta and I lost in contemplation. What _is_ next for us? The question circles overhead, eating away at me. I’ve already admitted to myself that I can’t live without him, but whether or not he is on the same page is a complete mystery to me. And perhaps it’s a mystery to him too, seeing as the best I’ve gotten from him is that he _might_ love me. Deep down inside him somewhere, I privately pray that he still does. 

Peeta walks me to my door, kisses Willow on the top of her head before depositing her into my arms, and gives me a brief hug before leaving for his own appointment with Dr. Aurelius. 

I flop down onto the couch in our living room with a deep sigh. This is our life now. Days filled with doctors’ appointments and tentative uncertainty.  Not to mention the rampant curiosity and speculation of almost everyone in the district. The tension knots itself in my shoulders and all I want is to be able to go into the woods and hunt and breathe in fresh air. The recycled air here adds to the cabin fever feeling that I just can’t shake. 

Perhaps it is a good thing that Willow does not allow me to sit alone with my thoughts for long because it is then that she makes a face that tells me she needs to be changed. Immediately. 

“You don’t sit still for long, do you?” I coo at her as I expertly wipe her clean. She’s such an active baby; I can’t bear to think of actually raising her here, in this underground prison. I may have been poor growing up, but at least I had sunshine and flowers and grassy fields to play in. Willow deserves that and much, much more.

“I’ll make that happen for you,” I whisper to her. “We’ll get out of here someday. I promise.”

 

*****

 

“Maybe if we took her for a walk?” Peeta shouts, but I can barely hear him over the bloodcurdling screams emitting from the infant in my arms.  

“Oh yeah, and wake up the whole district?” I snap back at him. I’m fully aware that my neighbors hate me for this reason already- the older man who lives in the compartment next door never misses an opportunity to shoot me a dirty look when we cross paths in the hallway. The last thing I need is for the rest of the district to develop similar feelings. 

Despite the fact that taking care of Willow has become routine, the job itself has not gotten any easier. Peeta is staying over to help me again, but she has been crying for two solid hours. Mom tried to help us for a while, but finally I gave up and made her go to bed. She needs to be up for her shift at the hospital in a few short hours. 

I’m near tears myself. Every time I’ve fed Willow, at least half of it comes back up. No amount of diaper changing, cuddling, or even singing will soothe her tears. It’s like some invisible force is bearing down on me, telling me I shouldn’t be a mother. That I’m a failure. Even Peeta is at his wit’s end. His hair is standing on end from all the time he’s run his fingers through it in exasperation. 

He holds out his arms to take his turn to try comforting the baby, and I plop down on the couch with my head in my hands. It is times like this when the memories of the arena hit me full force. Dr. Aurelius recommended some deep breathing exercises to stave off the flashbacks and “maintain my grip on reality,” but it’s not easy in execution. Willow’s cries are too piercing, penetrating my subconscious and allowing the horror of those days to seep through the cracks.  The mutts, the jabberjays, the never- ending terror of living in a fishbowl of steaming air and deadly tributes. I can feel myself falling apart, spiraling into that horrible dark panic with which I am so familiar, but then a large, warm hand caresses my back in soothing circles. 

I pull my face out of my hands to find Peeta, crying baby in one hand, the other busy comforting me. “Breathe,” he reminds me. “Just breath, Katniss.” I do as he says, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Then another. “Good,” he encourages. “Keep going.”  I do. 

It works, and at some point, Willow finally hiccups herself into quiet and the three of us fall into a fitful sleep. 

By the next morning I’m fully entrenched in what Prim has come to call “zombie- mode.” 

I barely got two hours rest total and I’m so tired I can barely stand, but I made it through the night. That should count for something. Still, I groan audibly when, for the first time in weeks, the instruction COMMAND- 0900 is printed in the schedule on my arm. My gut reaction is that I am sorely lacking the patience and the mental capacity to deal with a Command meeting today. But then the feeling of vague panic settles in. Now that the majority of District 13 knows about Willow and the news is surely spreading to other parts of the country, I will be expected to appear in a propo with her. 

But it will not be happening. Not if I have anything to say about it. My child will not be objectified for political gain. And that is exactly what I am planning to tell Plutarch Heavensbee and his crew of gawking cameramen when I get there.

Only Plutarch isn’t in the room when I arrive at Command 15 minutes late with my hair in the same messy braid it’s been in for two days and baby spit- up on the shoulder of my shirt. Nor is Haymitch, who is always present at these meetings. Instead, President Alma Coin herself sits at the head of the table, flanked by Officers Boggs and Jackson (the woman who used to be my training commander, but I have long since stopped attending the sessions) and several others, all in military dress similar to that which Gale was wearing when I saw him last. The only other person I recognize in this room is Finnick. He gives me a nod as I sit down across from him in the last empty seat. The ominous feeling in my stomach is exacerbated by the uncharacteristically serious expression on his face. 

“Thank you for finally joining us, Ms. Everdeen-“ 

“Mellark,” I correct automatically, cutting off President Coin. The corner of her mouth twitches unpleasantly and she continues on as though there had been no interruption. 

“Now that you are here, it has been decided that you will resume your duties as the Mockingjay immediately. We had anticipated claiming District Two long before now, but the situation is not progressing as well as we had hoped.” Two? That’s where Gale was headed when he left last week. “We need the presence of the Mockingjay to rally the people there. Those citizens and their industry are essential to our cause, otherwise we may as well be waving a white flag and surrendering to the Capitol. You’ll be leaving this afternoon. Mr. Odair and your camera crew will accompany you.” 

Finnick begins to protest instantly, but the ice- cold shock flooding my system prevents me from speaking. District 2? They want me to just get up and _leave_? _Now_? 

“No.” Every head in the room turns to me. My arms are crossed defiantly over my chest and my mind is set before I have really stopped to consider the matter. I am not going anywhere. 

“Ms. Everdeen-” Coin begins. 

“Mellark,” I snarl. 

“You have a duty to your country. The citizens of Panem need you. You remember the deal we made when you agreed to be our Mockingjay, I am sure? I have been lenient in light of recent developments, but it is long past time for you to resume your post.” I glare at the President, hatred in every fiber of my being. Coin gives me a tight, smug smile. She thinks she’s won. But this is far from over. 

“I don’t give a damn about our deal. I have a baby now! I can’t just get up and leave her!” The officers around the table stare at me with varying degrees of disgust and disbelief at my defiance. 

“It is my understanding that you have your mother, sister, and the child’s father to look after her, correct?” Coin says. 

“Yes, but-“ 

“Then it’s settled.” Coin waves a hand dismissively turns away from me to speak to her nearest advisor. Cool and flippant as ever, as though the matter can really be closed so easily. 

“I’m not going.” I sound like a petulant child, but my tone demands Coin’s full attention once again. She stares at me for a long moment. Finnick shoots me a look that might just be approval. Or maybe he simply thinks I’m foolish to challenge the President on her authority, in front of all these witnesses, no less. 

“I think Ms. _Mellark_ and I need a private moment,” she barks to the people around the room. With a great deal of scraping chairs and grumbled complaints, the room clears, the metal door sliding seamlessly shut behind the last gray- clad officer. Trapping me here. Coin levels me with her iron glare; I can almost see the wheels spinning in her head, calculating her next move. Contemplating how best to deal with her prey. Unfortunately for her, I’m a much better hunter with superior instincts. 

“It seems as though you need reminding, Katniss, that in exchange for the immunity of the remaining victors- Annie Cresta, Johanna Mason, and you _dear_ Peeta Mellark- you agreed to be our Mockingjay. You will uphold your end of the deal or I will have all of them sentenced to death for treason and conspiring with the Capitol.” 

“You won’t,” I spit, wondering if it is too early to lay all my cards on the table. “If you kill Peeta or any of the others, I’ll go public with everything. I’ll tell the entire country what kind of president you really are. You want to take me away from my child, just like Snow did to thousands of families before me. You people never learn do you? I will do anything to protect my family. _Anything_.” 

“What is to say your family is safe here just because you stay? I would hate for the Capitol to stage another bombing or some other… _accident_.” 

A horrifyingly familiar cascade of ice floods my stomach. “Is that a threat?”

“It is merely a caution, Ms. Everdeen.” I fume at her words. Her refusal to use my preferred name again is a pathetic attempt at a weak show of control. She’s grasping at straws, hoping for an easy surrender from me. But I did that once before, and it got me nowhere. I sold my soul to Snow when I agreed to keep up the charade between Peeta and I, and then again when I let him manipulate us into exploiting our love and our bodies for the Capitol audience. Now that I’m finally out from under his thumb, I’ll be damned if I allow Coin’s hand to take his place. 

“If you think those people in the districts will not listen to me when I tell them what you are… you’re wrong. Like you said, you need me. Because my voice _matters_. I’ll spread what I have to say far and wide. When this war is over, you will be _nothing_.”

It is partially a bluff, but I’m willing to take the chance. People here in thirteen may bow down at Alma Coin’s feet, but those in the other districts have no such loyalty to her. They do know me. They will listen to me. That, I do know.  

“And do you know something else?” I continue, for Coin has not uttered a word in the irate silence that stretches between us. “I think it was _you_ who gave the order for the doctors to keep quiet about my baby. You knew all along that she was alive, that they took her from me and… and _incubated_ her without my consent!”

“You are gravely mistaken. I knew no such thing.”

“You did. And you didn’t want me to know because you knew I couldn’t perform as your precious Mockingjay with that hanging over me. You had _no_ right to do that.” 

The silence that stretches between us is the most deafening yet.  

Coin does not deny the accusation a second time. Her cold eyes trap mine and I can see the truth clearly in their dark depths _. Someone high up didn’t want you to know_... that’s what Haymitch told me. It was Coin all along. She kept one of the most important people in my life a secret from me for four endless months. I loathe her for it. 

“Nevertheless,” she says, evidently going for a different tactic, “We all have to make sacrifices for the greater good. You must help us win this fight-“

“It’s not my fight anymore.” I don’t realize the truth of the statement until it has left my mouth. I may have inadvertently helped to spark this rebellion, but I never asked to lead it. It is up to the rebels to finish it. My priorities have changed wildly from what they were just a few months ago. The rebels may need me, but my family needs me more. 

“I quit. I’m done being your Mockingjay; I’m done being your pawn.” I stand to leave. Coin rises to her full height so that she’s looking down on me. It is an overbearing pose, clearly meant to intimidate me, but I stand my ground, refusing to show her any weakness. 

“The second you step foot out of this room your Mockingjay status will be revoked,” she snaps. “You will no longer be welcome at Command meetings. There will be no more favors, no special requests. If you leave now, it is all over.” 

“Fine.” I turn on my heel and march out of the room. I don’t look back. . 

As soon as the door slides closed behind me, I break into a run. The full ramifications of what I’ve just done settle in my brain and an actual _laugh_ bubbles up and escapes my mouth. It’s exhilarating- liberating, even- having these strings gone from me at last! My time as the Mockingjay is finally over and with the weight of the rebellion gone from my shoulders, I can breathe freely for the first time in months. There’s only one thing I can think to do. 

I don’t stop running until I skid to a stop outside of Haymitch and Peeta’s door. The door swings open as I pound it wildly with my fist, revealing Peeta with a bemused look on his face. I do not hesitate for a second before I grab him. I pull him down to meet my eager lips and kiss him, long and hard. The very first time since we were separated in the arena. 

He doesn’t respond at first, out of shock or otherwise, I don’t know. But I keep my lips pressed to his, my fingers digging into his shoulders, waiting, waiting… And then something inside him clicks and he’s kissing me back and it’s bliss, his lips moving with mine. _I missed this so much_. His hands find my waist and he pulls me into the compartment. My back slams against the front door as it closes and he claims me. His tongue finds mine, and my knees nearly buckle at the sensation. Peeta insinuates his knee between my legs and pins me to the door to keep me upright. Arousal races through my veins. My body is on fire for him. 

It is like learning to feel again for the very first time. Like I’ve been living in a numb void up until this moment. Everything, all my emotions, hit me at once. Relief that I am no longer the Mockingjay and a delightful giddiness that I have not felt for ages, and most of all, love for the man in my arms right now. I pour every ounce of it into this kiss. 

Our tongues swirl together, reacquainting themselves after so many months apart. The slight growth of stubble on his face scrapes my chin. His scent fogs my brain, and the _taste_ of him. _God_. How I lived for so long without the sweetly masculine taste of him on my tongue is a mystery to me. I grind down on his leg and cry out into his mouth. He drinks in my pleasured sounds with a fevered groan of his own, then breaks away from my mouth to lave at my earlobe. His hand is on my neck again, but oh- so- gently this time, not a trace of the hijacking victim left within him. He touches me tenderly as though I might break, like I’m the most precious thing in the world and he wants me to know that he’ll never hurt me again. I believe him. It’s a stark contrast to the animalistic way he’s pinning me to the door. He drops kisses down the column of my neck and across my clavicle. My hands wind their way into his hair and I pull him back to my mouth, hungry for his lips on mine again. Peeta obliges, pulling my bottom lip between his own. 

I can feel his arousal swelling against my belly, the violent palpitations of his heart matching in time with mine. There is not an inch of space to spare between us. Peeta is an extension of my very self. It is as though we are one body, one heart, one mind. I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

When at last we are forced to come up for air, Peeta rests his forehead against mine, breathing heavily. 

“Hi,” he whispers. 

“Hi.” 

“What was that for?”

“I missed you. I love you.” 

He pauses for a moment, his gaze never leaving mine. My breath stalls in my chest. 

“I love you, too,” he breathes. The pure sincerity in his eyes proves to me without the slightest shadow of a doubt that he does. _Peeta loves me_. My stomach flips and tears well in my eyes. I didn’t think it was possible to be happier than I was moments ago, but I was wrong. President Snow could waltz into the room right now and I’d still be positively glowing with joy. Peeta loves me again. And this time there is no way I’m letting him go. He cups my face and tilts my chin up, but just as our lips brush, the kiss is brought to an unceremonious end when the sound of a crying baby pierces through the otherwise silent room. Willow. 

Peeta pulls away, chuckling. “She _was_ down for a nap, but with the way you were pounding on the door…” Oops. I wasn’t thinking about that when I rushed all the way here with the frenzied need to feel Peeta’s lips on mine again. Now that I have, the space between us is too much to bear, so I grab his hand and follow him to the portable bassinet in the other room. Willow’s whimpers diminish almost at once when Peeta scoops her into his arms. 

“Shhh, it’s okay,” he coos to the baby. “Mama’s home. Mommy and Daddy are right here for you. You’re gonna be okay.” Peeta looks up and the intensity of his gaze tells me that his next words are just for me. “ _We’re_ gonna be okay.” 

Willow stares up at us through watery blue eyes. Those eyes that, with their stunning resemblance to Peeta’s, never fail to strike me when I see them. The physical reminder that she is just as much a part of him as she is a part of me. That together we made something pure and innocent and wonderful in this unjust and corrupt world. And yet somehow it feels like there’s more depth to her eyes than an infant should have. Like she already knows too much about the world in which she has arrived. But we will teach her, Peeta and I, about the good and the bad, and everything else the world has to offer. 

We still have healing to do. There will still be moments when our past comes back to haunt us. When the flashbacks hit Peeta and the crippling depression takes over my body. When Plutarch and others will want to exploit our situation. But we will get through it together. There will be time to explain everything to Peeta later. For now, I just want to enjoy my newfound freedom with my family, secure in the knowledge that together, we are all going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue to follow. Reviews get virtual hugs and cookies. 
> 
> xoxo


	17. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We began the story with Peeta, and it only seemed right to end with him, too. At long last, here is the epilogue to "More Than Words."

**_ Peeta _ **

Her long, black braid whips around a bush in front of me as I struggle to keep up with her, my feet somehow managing to find every twig and dead leaf in my path. Meanwhile, Katniss’s feet are sure and silent as she pads lightly across the forest floor, _and_ she’s managing it with a baby on her back. How she does it is beyond me; I can’t help admiring her for it. This is Katniss in her element, freer than I’ve seen her in months.   

“It’s not much farther,” she assures me. I’m only able to grunt out a singular reply, my breathing too heavy to talk much. But if what she promised comes to fruition, the hike will be worth it. It is a good thing Katniss is not planning on hunting today, because I have certainly scared off every animal within a 10-mile radius with the level of din I’m creating. She doesn’t seem to mind, though, and from behind her, I’ve got the perfect view of both my girls. Two dark heads bobbing through the woods together. 

There is a lightness to this day that has little to do with the cloudless sky and accompanying balmy weather, and everything to do with the end of the war. The rebels have won. We are free. Newly minted President Paylor is doing everything she can to ensure that.

When the rebel forces finally gained ahold of District Two, it was only a matter of time until the end of the war. Coriolanus Snow surrendered when our soldiers infiltrated the Capitol. He believed, in his arrogance, that he would be spared from punishment if he presented himself in peace to the rebels rather than try to fight or escape. He could not have been more wrong. For all his crimes, he has been sentenced to death. His hanging is today. It will be aired publicly, but it is not required viewing. When Katniss suggested that we get out of the district for while rather than watch it live, I knew it was the right choice for us. A fresh start for our new family. 

President Coin, for her part, became the focus of a lengthy investigation after several citizens and soldiers from District 13 came forward to report the questionable choices she made during her term in office. As such, she has been charged with numerous war crimes, committed both before and during the rebellion. Her trial is yet to come, but one thing is for certain: Alma Coin will never work in politics again. 

We walk through the dense brush for another ten minutes or so, and when we finally enter the clearing Katniss described to me back in our shared compartment, I can see that she was right. It is beautiful and peaceful here, the ground abundant with wildflowers and the nearby stream babbling cheerfully in the midday sun. I pull a blanket out of the bag I’m carrying and spread it on the ground so Katniss can settle in with Willow. The baby comes always comes first now, and it is time for her to eat. 

At four months old, Willow is such a cheerful, vivacious baby. She has yet to say her first word, but Mrs. Everdeen claims that she babbles more than Katniss or Prim ever did. Her giggles are the most infectious thing in the world. Her mere existence brings everyone hope. She is our dandelion in the spring; the first of a new generation, just one of many children who will never have to live with the threat of the Hunger Games over their heads. 

While Katniss feeds the baby, I assemble a modest lunch from the contents of the hamper. Cold- cut sandwiches on fresh bread and special fruit tarts that I made special for today. By now, Katniss has mastered the art of eating a meal single- handed and she digs in as soon as I hand her a sandwich.   

“Are you sure you want to go back tomorrow?” I ask, observing her reaction closely. 

Katniss frowns around large mouthful of sandwich. “Of course I’m sure. Where else would we go?” 

“I’m only thinking out loud, I guess. I just mean we could go anywhere we want. We could go to Four with your mom and Prim, for one thing. I’m sure I could open a bakery there and you could-“ 

“Shhh, Peeta,” she says, and she abandons her sandwich to lay a finger across my lips. “We talked about this. We want our daughter to grow up where we did. In Twelve. I want her to see my forest and I want us to rebuild your parent’s bakery so you can teach her everything you know.” 

“Yeah, but-“ 

“Besides, who’s gonna look after Haymitch if we don’t go back? You know he’ll never leave Twelve.” 

She makes a fair point. Haymitch is just as much a part of our family as Willow is. We can’t leave him behind. Katniss traces her finger along my jaw and down my neck. The contact is enough to raise goose bumps on my skin. “Still there’s always Seven with Johanna or even Two with Gale…” The air chills over instantly. I meant it more as a joke, but I should not have mentioned Gale. The bad blood there is still much too fresh. I don’t know exactly what went on between he and Katniss, but I know enough. Yet there is still a lurking fear where the tracker jacker venom has all but vanished in my brain telling me that Katniss’s heart truly lies with him. I think it’s that part of me that’s making me subconsciously sabotage our relationship by saying stupid things like this. 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. 

She shakes her head. “I love _you_ , Peeta. I always will.” I nod my head, sucked into her entirely sincere gaze. I believe her. I do. “Besides, we’ll see all of them often enough. You know that Finnick will be dying to show off the baby once he’s born.” That’s true. Finnick is still ever the show- off and he’s exceedingly grateful to Katniss for her refusal to go to District Two. When she gave up her status as the Mockingjay, he was let off the hook too. Annie is about four months along. 

It is then that Willow finishes her meal and Katniss shifts the baby to her shoulder for burping. The action is so seamless, so natural, that if I didn’t know Katniss so well, I would never know she did not plan on becoming a mother at all. The role suits her so perfectly that I can’t imagine her any other way. If it is at all possible, my love for her has deepened immeasurably since Willow came into our lives. 

“Wanna go wading in the water?” I ask when the baby has been burped and our food eaten.   

“Peeta, it’ll be freezing,” says Katniss, rolling her eyes. She’s probably right. Winter weather has gone for the year, but spring is still cold enough to bring frost to the ground most mornings. 

“Guess we’ll find out!” Before she can stop me, I scoop up the baby and head for the stream, kicking off my shoes and socks as I go. I bound into the water and halt immediately. Katniss was right. The water stings like needles on my bare feet. 

Katniss stands on the bank, hands on her hips, clearly trying to hold back her laughter. “I told you,” she says. I give her a mischievous grin, lowering Willow toward the water. 

Katniss’s eyes narrow to slits. “You wouldn’t.” 

I would. I lower Willow so just the tips of her tiny toes touch the surface of the water. It works. Katniss bounds for me, splashing into the stream. 

“Peeta! You’ll give her pneumonia!” But Willow is giggling and kicking her chubby legs, toes skimming the surface of the water. Katniss starts laughing too, and I join in. The forest rings with the sound of us, actually _laughing_ for the first time in ages. Then Willow gives a particularly hard kick and splashes Katniss in the leg with the icy water. Katniss stops dead, and I take the opportunity to scoop up a handful of water and hurl it at her, too. Katniss shrieks as the water douses her front and Willow giggles more than ever. 

“Oh you think that’s funny?” she says, reaching toward the water herself. 

“Ah ah ah, I have the baby!” I sing- song, holding Willow up in front of me as a shield from her retaliation. 

“That’s playing dirty, Mellark.” 

“What are you gonna do about it?” I challenge. Katniss stares at me dead in the eyes for a second that contains an eternity. Then without warning, she whips her shirt off over her head to reveal her thin cotton bra completely soaked through, and leaving very little to the imagination. 

“I’m going to go dry off.” And she flounces away in a very un-Katniss-like fashion, leaving me in the stream, mouth agape.

Katniss and I have made leaps and bounds together since she gave up being the Mockingjay, but the physical intimacy between us has been lacking, largely due to the lack of privacy in District 13. But now, a half- naked Katniss lounges in the sun only a few yards away from me. My body begins to respond in ways that have been dormant for months now, enticing me to act on it. 

But there is still Willow to contend with. Trudging out of the water and back to our picnic spot, I dry her feet, change her wet diaper with the skill of a practiced pro, and wrap her in an extra blanket, just in case. She does not protest. She gazes up at me with huge blue eyes as I stoke the soft hair atop her head in the way that promises to lull her into sleep. We remain that way for several minutes, father and daughter wrapped in each other. Then her eyes become heavy, her blinks last longer, and soon she has drifted off to sleep. It’s too easy. She’ll wake up again soon and demand attention once more, and I will be only too happy to oblige her. One concrete certainty in our future is the fact that I will never deny her anything. Willow will have the healthy and happy childhood that was impossible for Katniss and myself. But for now, it feels like she is giving her mother and I the alone time we desperately crave. I’ll take it. 

I settle the baby in a nest of blankets and crawl over to where Katniss lays, eyes closed and soaking in the afternoon sun that trickles in through the trees. My fingers trail up the skin of her arm, which is a few shades lighter than her usual olive tone thanks to all the time she has spent underground. A few new scars from the Quell adorn her body, but they only make her more beautiful to me. My eyes cast over her damp bra and the dark wisps of hair escaping her braid. I can tell that she is awake, but she hasn’t opened her eyes since I left the stream. Stubborn girl. She startles a little when my lips touch her upper arm. “I have something for you,” I whisper. 

She cracks open an eye. “You do?” 

“Uh huh. Wanna see it?” Her head bobs up and down, and I reach into the picnic bag. When my fingers close around the chain, I lift it up for her to see. 

“Is that-“ 

“It is,” I affirm. She sits up and grabs the locket from me. It is the same one I gave her during the Quell. It’s still broken in half and there’s no chance of fixing it, given that we left the other half in the arena, but I _have_ made one small change. “Turn it over.”   

She gasps when she finds the tiny picture I’ve drawn of Willow, all blue eyes and rosy cheeks with that shock of dark hair. Cameras are hard to come by in 13, so I figured this would be just as good. “I had to take out the photo of your mom and Prim, but I don’t think they’d mind, do you?” I ask her. Katniss shakes her head. 

“No, I don’t. It’s perfect, Peeta. Really.” She throws her arms around me and I give in to her embrace. I would stay here all day if she’d let me.

Our kiss begins slowly. I don’t know which one of us initiates it, but our lips find each other as though it is the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it is. I have been kissing Katniss long before there were any true feelings involved, and even back then I knew that her lips belonged with mine. We fit perfectly together, like the two missing pieces of a puzzle. She tastes the same as she always did. Sweet and earthy and simply Katniss. There is no other way to describe it. She is impossibly beautiful and unique. When I inhale, her sent fills my senses. 

And then there is heat, sparking where her lips are melded to mine and spreading through my entire body. The sensation warms my chest and limbs, burning all the way out to my fingers and toes. The arousal that began minutes ago becomes more prominent as more blood rushes south. Katniss makes the first sound that either of us has made since the beginning of our kiss. A deep, longing moan that sinks into my bones. I ache to touch her, and she must read my mind because she pulls me down to rest on top of her. My hips give an involuntary thrust at the contact. Even through our clothing, I can feel her center hot with need. She wraps her legs around my waist, giving me better access, and lifts her hips up into mine. She pulls a groan from the back of my throat when her fingers curl into my hair, further securing my face to hers. If this keeps up, I’m going to come far too soon. 

It takes all my willpower to wrench myself away from her, and when I do, the look on her face nearly shatters me. She thinks I’m rejecting her. Or maybe she thinks I’m having another hijacking episode. Nothing could be further from the truth. I lean down to place another gentle kiss upon her swollen lips, explaining wordlessly that in this moment, I am entirely hers. I have always been hers. She moves my hand to her chest, slipping my fingers under the material of her bra. Together, we shimmy the damp fabric over her head and cast it away. My lips fall immediately to her chest, lavishing kisses over both breasts, giving each the proper attention it deserves. It is both familiar and brand new at the same time to cradle them in my hands as she writhes beneath me, squirming with pleasure.

When my lips meet hers again, her fingers fumble for the buttons of my shirt. I help her along, sliding it from my shoulders, and allowing Katniss to run her hands up and down my chest. I’ve been working hard to replace the muscle mass I lost to malnourishment and torture in the Capitol, training with the rest of the soldiers when I have the time. By the look on Katniss’s face, it has paid off. Her fingers leave a trail of pleasant tingles wherever they touch my naked skin. Suddenly, the urge to feel her skin on mine is overwhelming. 

I grab her hands and hold them above our heads, pressing myself into every line of her body. Her perfect breasts heave into my chest with each panting breath she draws. “As much as I love Willow, I don’t think we’re quite ready for another baby yet, don’t you think?” I breathe into her ear. Katniss pulls away from me, looking disappointed at the implication that we should stop here, but agrees with me, nodding her head _yes_.  

“Then we better use these.” I rummage through the picnic bag one- handed, finally locating the item. 

“Where did you get that?” Katniss’s eyes widen at the box of foil wrapped condoms in my hand. 

“Uh, Haymitch gave them to me actually. I guess Thirteen has it’s own black market,” I admit, a deep blush coloring my face and neck. “He made it very clear to me that he has enough on his plate with the three of us now to look after and a fourth might drive him back to the white liquor.” I decide leave out the part where he told me that Katniss will be easier to tolerate once she gets laid again. I might have already killed the mood by mentioning Haymitch in the first place. 

But Katniss only smiles. “And you brought the whole box with us today? You had lofty expectations for a trip into the woods, didn’t you?” 

I shrug my shoulders. “What can I say? I’m an optimist.” 

“What are you waiting for, then?” That’s all it takes. I peel my pants and underwear away from my body while Katniss does the same. She settles herself in my lap, knees apart, straddling my legs. I haven’t even touched her yet, and already I can tell that she is dripping wet. Sinking two fingers into her folds confirms my suspicions.  Katniss moans and grinds herself onto my hand. When I remove my fingers and place them in my mouth, her taste comes back to me like the sweetest memory. How could I have ever forgotten this? In this moment, it doesn’t seem possible that I could have. 

If she would let me, I would lie Katniss down right now and savor every inch of her. I’d taste her and pleasure her until she forgets her own name. But she seems hell bent on getting what she wants. And right now, what she wants is me. I decide that this time, I’ll allow it. 

She grips my cock in her hand. Ignoring my own needs up until this point has made me extremely sensitive. My whole body trembles when she runs her hand up and down my length. She leans down to place a single kiss on my weeping tip. “I’ve missed this so much,” she mewls. 

“Then what are you waiting for?” I challenge. Her silver eyes snap to mine, and the corner of her mouth quirks up the slightest bit. She grabs the condom and rolls it down over my length, then lunges forward to capture my lips with hers, my cock trapped between us and absolutely begging for release. I grab her ass and lift her up to position her just right. She grips my shoulders and I swallow her gasp as she sinks onto me, all the way to the hilt. It is like coming home. Our bodies fit so well together; we are two separate pieces of one being. The act comes so naturally and I’m relieved that this, at least, is one thing I will not have to relearn. 

Katniss moves first. My hold on her ass tightens as she lifts herself up and plunges back down with a soft grunt. She does it again, this time so slowly it is almost painful. I allow this exactly one more time before I take control. Grabbing her hands, I lift them above our heads and roll us so that she lies on the blanket beneath me. It’s lucky the forest floor is carpeted in soft pine needles. Her legs lock automatically around my waist, pulling me even deeper inside her plush walls. It jolts me into action, pulling out almost all the way before entering her again, just slowly enough so that I can feel every facet of her. I know I’ve hit just the right spot when her fingernails dig into the skin of my back, but I relish the pain. It helps to stave off the pleasure threatening to engulf me. I’m not ready for this to be over yet. 

But Katniss, it seems, has other ideas. “ _Peeta_ ,” she mewls. My name is pure desire on her lips. It is a wanton promise, a desperate need. And it is going to be the death of me. My cock swells impossibly harder at the sound of her voice. “Let go, Peeta.” Her words ghost over my face as I gaze into her eyes, pupils dilated so her smoky irises have all but vanished. 

“I can’t,” I croak. Not yet. I want _her_ to let go first. I angle myself so that my pubic bone brushes against her most sensitive area as I move in and out of her. She cries out each time I hit that spot, pleading for _more, more, more_. I will never deny her what she asks. My hips snap into her with reckless abandon, quickening with each thrust. Warmth begins to curl my toes, spreading from the place where Katniss and I are joined as one. With a final deep thrust, her head falls back and she lets out a strangled cry that reverberates around our intimate clearing. My mouth latches onto her exposed neck and I can’t hold it back any longer as her walls contract around me. The pleasant warmth in my bones becomes fire that scorches blissfully through my body as I reach my peak, falling into ecstasy right alongside Katniss. 

The one and only thought in my mind is that this is _real_. It is almost unthinkable to me after months of living in hazy confusion, but the clear truth of it grips me all at once. It is a tangible, concrete fact: Katniss is real, and she loves me. And I love her. 

My limbs feel like jelly. I don’t think I could move if I wanted to, but Katniss clutches me even closer to her, as though she is afraid I’ll disappear if she so much as loosens her vice grip on me. She needn’t worry. I’ll be here as long as she allows me to be. My lips seek hers, and she meets me in a long, lazy kiss. 

The woods seem to come to life as we lay together. Mockingjays sing in the trees overhead and the sunlight filters down through the canopy of leaves while our infant daughter sleeps peacefully nearby. It is the very definition of a perfect moment. The first in what I dearly hope is a lifetime of perfect moments. “What are you thinking?” Katniss breathes in my ear. I shift myself so as to look directly into her eyes. A million things that I could say race through my head, but only one thought makes it past my lips. 

“I still can’t believe this is real.”

Katniss smiles. “It’s real, Peeta. I promise.” Our languid kiss increases in intensity, teeth and tongues clashing in the heat of our mouths. I’m getting hard again already. But there is one thing I want to do before anything else. I break away from the kiss to nibble the sensitive area at the base of her neck. Katniss’s skin is beaded with sweat and soft as velvet under my tongue. My lips paint a trail down her body, from the valley of smooth skin between her perfect breasts to her stomach, taught with anticipation. Her legs part willingly under my touch. “Peeta,” she moans when I reach the mound at her center. Her silky voice transforms my name into an ethereal song. I want to listen to it for the rest of my life. 

My hand slides upward in search of hers. Almost instantly, Katniss laces her fingers through mine. _It means I love you._ She first said those precious words to me in the throes of passion what seems like a lifetime ago. Those words were my one shining truth after my mind was warped with venom and fear and lies. They came back to me when nothing else could fight through the confusion, and they come back to me now as a beacon of hope and promise for our future. My last, euphoric thought before I close my eyes and lose myself in Katniss is that I will never again have to let her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn’t think I’d leave you without a final sex scene, did you? It’s been far too long, imo! 
> 
> I can’t believe this story is finished at last. What began as a one- shot ended up transforming into an entirely different beast that took me a year to complete. Enormous thanks go out to all of my dedicated readers who have taken this journey with me and encouraged me to keep going with this- I sincerely couldn’t have done it without you. Whether you’ve spoken to me personally, or you’re just a number in my stats, I appreciate every single one of you. Thank you for taking the time to read my little fic. 
> 
> I’ve got a number of stories in progress that I hope to begin posting soon… follow me here or on my tumblr (everlarkstoastbabies) for updates on those. In addition, I’m posting an outtake from Part 8 following Peeta’s rescue from the Capitol that didn’t quite make it into this story. It’s a little flashback to the very end of The Hunger Games, when Katniss breaks Peeta’s heart on the train tacks. But this time, she gets a second chance to do it over. It’s called "Back to the Start" if you’re interested, and you can find it under my profile. 
> 
> Once again, thank you for reading. Comments would be the cherry on top of this "More Than Words" sundae. 
> 
> xoxo


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